Fortunately, First Baptist didn't have a security checkpoint for heathens.
It was a good thing, too, or I'd never have made it inside for the "Color of Law" panel discussion tonight. The church has been holding discussion groups all month about Richard Rothstein's book "The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America," as part of their acknowledgement of Black History Month.
I give them major props for that.
But tonight's panel discussion was open to the public and while Mac was the one who'd told me about the event, she couldn't go. Not long after taking my seat, a woman named Betty Ann approached to welcome me and ask how I'd heard about the event. Presumed on her part was that I was not a member of the congregation or she'd have recognized me.
I prefer to think I just don't look like a Baptist.
Not long after she moved on, a man came over to adjust the iPad mounted on a tripod right next to my feet. After introducing himself, he pointed to his name tag, letting me know it was there for me in case I forgot his name. Considering he was the pastor of the church, it didn't seem likely.
Besides, there was little chance I'd forget him after he stepped in front of the iPad - now turned on - and welcomed the home audience and told them that the event would be starting...when it started. That's a joke, son.
The five-person panel took their seats on the dais and my immersion into the history of government-mandated segregation began.
Prior to the 20th century, Richmond wasn't terribly segregated, in part because of all the urban slaves who lived here near their masters and worked the flour mills, the ironworks and the tobacco factories. But come the 20th century, the U.S. government got serious about extending segregation.
And to bring that home to RVA, Baltimore was the first city to adopt race-based zoning codes to segregate people. And, yes, sadly, Richmond was second in the country. It's not enough we have an avenue dedicated to white men guilty of treason, now this. We ought to be ashamed.
In its typically underhanded way, the government passed racial purity laws which stated, in part, that people could only live in neighborhoods made up of residents they could marry. Well, we all know Virginia (among others) had laws on the books prohibiting blacks and white marrying, so the racial purity laws ensured separate neighborhoods.
The panel reminded us that our country was built on a lie, citing the American Revolution as truly only half a revolution. That's because at the time of the Declaration of Independence, 300,000 whites were granted equality, life, love and the pursuit of happiness while 300,000 blacks were told to get back to work.
1776 is looking less glorious all the time.
We heard about urban renewal plans begun as early as the late 1930s and the formula was always the same. Tear down a black neighborhood and replace 1/3 of it with highway (hello, I-95), 1/3 with industrial and 1/3 with public housing. Even with my poor math skills, that tells me that X amount of people are now being forced to live in 1/3 the amount of space (and not allowed so much as a garden) simply because their skin is black.
The structural barriers of race were discussed, things like the FHA's refusal to make mortgage loans to blacks, thus ensuring they'd have to rent not own, a sure way to limit any possible wealth growth.
Lofty as it is, the goal, everyone agreed, is to economically and racially integrate.
After the panel discussion, audience questions were taken and don't you just know that some blue-haired white woman raised her hand and said it was her impression that black people wanted to stay in the projects. I think I saw a black woman on the panel silently count to 10 before she politely explained that that wasn't always the case.
"In many cases, they don't want to live there any more than you do," she said explaining it in a way that white privilege could relate to.
The minister was quick to remind us that anyone who'd come to this kind of panel discussion was a good person, but sometimes, you just have to cringe to be part of a race where people can be so clueless.
At the end of the evening, the minister led us in a short prayer (I spent the time deciding what dessert I was having next) and said he had an extra copy of the book if anyone wanted it.
Heathen that I am, I marched right up there and asked for it. He was more than happy to hand it over and expressed the hope that I come back again soon. And I may. I always enjoy their movies in the garden series in the summer.
Oh, that's not what he meant? We heathens can be so dense.
Showing posts with label first baptist church. Show all posts
Showing posts with label first baptist church. Show all posts
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Friday, August 26, 2016
Simmer Down
You never know where the surprises are going to come from.
I saw Hitchcocks's "Rear Window" on the big screen for the first time in 2009 and then a second time in 2011. Tonight I saw it again but with two major differences: I was outdoors and I was seeing it with a whole passel of people who hadn't seen it before, much less heard of rear window ethics.
Ever.
During dinner at a nearly empty Garnett's (there was a woman who'd dropped off her youngest at college and was having cake to help her deal with the trauma), I read the New York Times Magazine issue from December 15, 2015 (still not entirely sure why it remains in the reading box nine months later), mainly because the cover story was called "The Lives They Led" and was about obscure and notable people who died last year, so it was kind of fascinating.
And while I'd read that singer Leslie Gore of "It's My Party" fame was gay, I'd had no clue so many of her songs were about feeling like an outsider because of it.
I'd had no idea that there was a woman known as "Dust Lady" because of a haunting photograph taken shortly after the towers fell on September 11.
Or heard of Lee Israel, a two-bit writer who apparently faked a slew of correspondence by notable dead writers, a scam that led to a book deal about her literary thievery.
All dead now.
Showing my server a '60s photo of a mother and son sitting on a NYC stoop, a lit cigarette in her hand, I commented that you'd never see an image like that today and she agreed. "There's a simplicity to that that doesn't exist anymore. If they did it now, it would be so much more staged looking, so much less natural" she was sure.
Okay and there would also not be a cigarette in her hand.
Dessert consisted of a stranger's leftover frosting (she thinks icing is too sweet) and by the time I left, every seat was filled except mine. And despite everyone having someone with them, I made sure to return the magazine to the box in case others needed dinner company like I had.
Then I went undercover with the Baptists, as I do every August for their Classics in the Courtyard series. Just another heathen in a folding chair at First Baptist.
Trying to look unassuming, I began setting up my chair in the second row, only to have a woman ask me if I was with the James River Hikers. I admitted I wasn't, not sure if I needed to move my chair. She let me stay after I shared that I walk multiple miles every day.
The film had barely begun - Jimmy Stewart's window shades were just starting to roll up and Hitch had not yet cut to one of the many shots of the thermometer showing 90+ degrees - when I overheard a guy behind me ask, "Is this a murder mystery or a love story?" to which his friend replied, "Kind of both."
Kind of superfluous was the captioning, which I had to assume was on in case people couldn't hear all the dialog, but I'm pretty sure everyone there could hear the foghorns, whistles and cars beeping, so why did the captions need to show that inane information, too? It was just annoying.
It was not only an ideal summer flick, but a pretty great outdoor movie with all its references to heat. Beads of perspiration on Jimmy's face. A couple sleeping on their balcony. A composer mopping his studio in his boxers. Everyone's open windows.
As always happens when you're screening outdoors, the world becomes part of the experience. A cool breeze picked up just as it began raining onscreen and ended when it stopped.
As unfortunately also happens, glitches gum up the viewing. When the woman screams because she's discovered her little dog has been strangled, the screen froze, as if in horror.
Once we could have handled, but it kept happening, causing repeated pauses to correct it. Behind me, the "Rear Window" virgins were salivating to find out what was going to happen next.
Since I already knew that much, I focused on admiring the freeze frames of Grace Kelly, each one of which was utterly gorgeous, no matter where the frame settled.
All the starting and stopping was making for running commentary from behind, as in, "No, no, Lisa, get out of there!" when she was trapped in the murderer's apartment, or the clueless guy who saw Jimmy grabbing his camera bag for flashbulbs and whispered, "I hope he has a gun!"
Truly, I was amazed to hear so many people commenting as if this was their first time watching "Rear Window." How is that even possible in a crowd that definitely skewed pre-MTV?
When our hero mentioned needing a drink, the guy behind me said, "I need a drink, too. This is too much suspense!" Cover blown.
Not likely to happen with this crowd, friend. In any case, tonight proved that you haven't seen Hitchcock until you've seen it with the Baptists...and a few covert heathens.
And, yes, there will always be suspense.
I saw Hitchcocks's "Rear Window" on the big screen for the first time in 2009 and then a second time in 2011. Tonight I saw it again but with two major differences: I was outdoors and I was seeing it with a whole passel of people who hadn't seen it before, much less heard of rear window ethics.
Ever.
During dinner at a nearly empty Garnett's (there was a woman who'd dropped off her youngest at college and was having cake to help her deal with the trauma), I read the New York Times Magazine issue from December 15, 2015 (still not entirely sure why it remains in the reading box nine months later), mainly because the cover story was called "The Lives They Led" and was about obscure and notable people who died last year, so it was kind of fascinating.
And while I'd read that singer Leslie Gore of "It's My Party" fame was gay, I'd had no clue so many of her songs were about feeling like an outsider because of it.
I'd had no idea that there was a woman known as "Dust Lady" because of a haunting photograph taken shortly after the towers fell on September 11.
Or heard of Lee Israel, a two-bit writer who apparently faked a slew of correspondence by notable dead writers, a scam that led to a book deal about her literary thievery.
All dead now.
Showing my server a '60s photo of a mother and son sitting on a NYC stoop, a lit cigarette in her hand, I commented that you'd never see an image like that today and she agreed. "There's a simplicity to that that doesn't exist anymore. If they did it now, it would be so much more staged looking, so much less natural" she was sure.
Okay and there would also not be a cigarette in her hand.
Dessert consisted of a stranger's leftover frosting (she thinks icing is too sweet) and by the time I left, every seat was filled except mine. And despite everyone having someone with them, I made sure to return the magazine to the box in case others needed dinner company like I had.
Then I went undercover with the Baptists, as I do every August for their Classics in the Courtyard series. Just another heathen in a folding chair at First Baptist.
Trying to look unassuming, I began setting up my chair in the second row, only to have a woman ask me if I was with the James River Hikers. I admitted I wasn't, not sure if I needed to move my chair. She let me stay after I shared that I walk multiple miles every day.
The film had barely begun - Jimmy Stewart's window shades were just starting to roll up and Hitch had not yet cut to one of the many shots of the thermometer showing 90+ degrees - when I overheard a guy behind me ask, "Is this a murder mystery or a love story?" to which his friend replied, "Kind of both."
Kind of superfluous was the captioning, which I had to assume was on in case people couldn't hear all the dialog, but I'm pretty sure everyone there could hear the foghorns, whistles and cars beeping, so why did the captions need to show that inane information, too? It was just annoying.
It was not only an ideal summer flick, but a pretty great outdoor movie with all its references to heat. Beads of perspiration on Jimmy's face. A couple sleeping on their balcony. A composer mopping his studio in his boxers. Everyone's open windows.
As always happens when you're screening outdoors, the world becomes part of the experience. A cool breeze picked up just as it began raining onscreen and ended when it stopped.
As unfortunately also happens, glitches gum up the viewing. When the woman screams because she's discovered her little dog has been strangled, the screen froze, as if in horror.
Once we could have handled, but it kept happening, causing repeated pauses to correct it. Behind me, the "Rear Window" virgins were salivating to find out what was going to happen next.
Since I already knew that much, I focused on admiring the freeze frames of Grace Kelly, each one of which was utterly gorgeous, no matter where the frame settled.
All the starting and stopping was making for running commentary from behind, as in, "No, no, Lisa, get out of there!" when she was trapped in the murderer's apartment, or the clueless guy who saw Jimmy grabbing his camera bag for flashbulbs and whispered, "I hope he has a gun!"
Truly, I was amazed to hear so many people commenting as if this was their first time watching "Rear Window." How is that even possible in a crowd that definitely skewed pre-MTV?
When our hero mentioned needing a drink, the guy behind me said, "I need a drink, too. This is too much suspense!" Cover blown.
Not likely to happen with this crowd, friend. In any case, tonight proved that you haven't seen Hitchcock until you've seen it with the Baptists...and a few covert heathens.
And, yes, there will always be suspense.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Signed, Sealed and Delivered
I've got no romantic notions about how wonderful living in a past time period might have been.
Belle Epoque, Roaring '20s, "Mad Men"-era '50s? Thank you, no. I wouldn't have been happy living in any era before the Pill, so it's convenient how my lifetime dovetailed so nicely with that game changer.
But one thing I do regret losing is the letter-writing era.
Make no mistake, when I came up, letter writing was still very much the norm.
I had a French pen pal for three years. The summer between 10th and 11th grades, I corresponded with an admirer named Charlie who wrote me impassioned letters, his handwriting getting bigger and darker to emphasize his compliments and feelings.
My best friend moved after college and we wrote back and forth weekly as she shared the frustrations of a California girl trying to adjust to New England (and marriage). When I first moved to Richmond, I regularly wrote to my Mom and some of my sisters about life after Dupont Circle.
Tellingly, I still have all of their letters.
But if someone wanted to suss out the story of my life through correspondence, they'd only have one side of the story - the letters written to me. I'm just about positive no one saved my letters.
So how could I not be intrigued to hear that Cheryl Jackson Baker, author of "Affectionately Yours: The Civil War Letters of William B. Jackson and His Wife Julia," was reading at Chop Suey tonight?
The Jacksons were her Ohio great-great grandparents and the trove of letters written from 1862 through 1866 had been found in her Dad's Florida closet after he died.
When I walked in, she was asking people in the room what had piqued their interest to attend her talk. Most said it was the Civil War angle or that they were history buffs. For me, it was all about the couple correspondence
Baker began by reading a letter from August 15, 1862 from William, stationed in Alabama, writing about the three mountain women who had visited camp hoping to trade things such as apples and pickled cucumbers for salt and sugar.
His letter said their dresses were fastened with thorns (reason #9257 the past would've held zero appeal for me) and that they inquired if there was any "chaw tobacco." Plugs in their mouths, they claimed it was the best chaw they'd ever had.
She read from a letter a bible quote, pointing out how rare that was. "Being Episcopalians, they didn't quote the bible often. I can say that because I'm an Episcopalian."
The letters she read were wonderful, with intimate details of daily life (Julia took quinine pills when she had headaches), references to home (peach trees) and exultations about the war's progress. Baker was especially pleased to get to read in Richmond a letter about Julia's rejoicing when she heard that Richmond was in the Union's possession (it wasn't true).
Through multiple letters, it became clear that Julia was a bit high maintenance, always nagging William to come home (just drop that silly war business and get back here) and reminding him how difficult her life was now.
If they don't let men come home more often, they'll have to put up insane asylums for the women.
Apparently, Julia also had a flair for the dramatic.
Baker kept things interesting by telling us about Chapter 5, also known as the sex chapter, where she'd assembled the most intimate of Julia and William's letters. Civil War shades of gray, so to speak.
"Just read that chapter!" a woman in the front row cajoled. Seems that William had heard about a way for Julia to use a "proxy" through the mail to have a baby while he was away. Oh, yes, we were definitely all curious about that.
But even without the smutty stuff, the eloquent letters, copies of which we saw in hand-outs, were written in the penmanship of people who practiced. Many words were underlined for emphasis. War and home front updates aside, they were full of affection and love for each other, written down so they could return to reread them whenever they chose to.
That's what we've lost with the passing of letter writing. Oh, sure, I've saved a few romantic e-mails over the years, but it's not the same as handwritten letters. Nothing is.
Parting way with the Episcopalians, my next stop was with the Baptists. As part of their summer "Classics in the Courtyard" series, First Baptist was showing the 1938 classic, "The Adventures of Robin Hood." Besides the obvious appeal of an outdoor movie on a summer night, I'd never seen an Errol Flynn movie.
I was ready to be swashbuckled.
Pulling into the parking lot at First Baptist, I see exactly two cars and a couple, folding chairs on their shoulders, looking disappointed. "It must be canceled," she says. "There's no movie screen, no people, no popcorn!"
Bummer.
On the plus side, I happen to know that there is music at Crossroads Coffee ("Forget the GOP debates. Come experience something positive"), so I turn the car around and head there, arriving during Annabeth McNamara's set of live, magical folk music.
Looking particularly fetching in a tiara, she plays guitar and banjo accompanied by cute couple Renee Byrd on drums and Logan Byrd on upright bass.
At the counter, I quietly order chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce, to which the guy verifies, "You want chocolate with chocolate?" I do. When he delivers it to me, it's with a look of pride. "I put chocolate sauce in the bottom, then the ice cream and chocolate sauce on top." This man could be my soul mate.
Among other things, the band plays through such folk standards as a heartbreak song, a sad song and perhaps most impressively, a song in the same key as "Margaritaville" that answers that song.
When they finish, Annabeth says, "Stick around for Lobo Marino coming up next. I feel like they're creating a community that's even more important than music." I'd attest to the same.
A woman comes in and sits down next to me, turning to ask if I've seen Lobo Marino before. Oh, please. I knew Jameson and Laney before they were Lobo Marino. But I am impressed that she's participated in the annual All Saints Halloween parade, a raucous event I've marched in many times.
She turns out to be an avid cyclist, an artist and an interesting one, having migrated to the city a couple of years ago after exile in the county and jumped into the local scene. We bond over our shared freelance status (she does graphic design), our days spent working alone at home and our mutual need to get out in the world by the end of the workday.
Lobo Marino, meanwhile, are weaving their mystical musical sounds with the garage door rolled up, the rain falling lightly outside and a guy near me standing entranced, eyes closed, hands clasped, swaying to every sound the duo produces. Staff and patrons move around him, so as to not disturb his reverie.
Singing "Holy River," they have the full attention of every person in the room, creating some sort of cosmic connection effortlessly as their voices blend and soar. This, my friends, is how these two are creating a community.
A hundred and fifty years ago, I'd have gone home and written a letter to my beloved, telling him about the conversations with my new friend, the seductive music I heard and how I wish he could have been with me. I might have gotten a little mushy. With any luck, I'd have put it as eloquently as the Alarm.
Our love is the faith that keeps on burning
I love to feel the rain in the summertime
I love to feel the rain on my face
P.S. Come home soon. None of us wants to end up in the insane asylum.
Belle Epoque, Roaring '20s, "Mad Men"-era '50s? Thank you, no. I wouldn't have been happy living in any era before the Pill, so it's convenient how my lifetime dovetailed so nicely with that game changer.
But one thing I do regret losing is the letter-writing era.
Make no mistake, when I came up, letter writing was still very much the norm.
I had a French pen pal for three years. The summer between 10th and 11th grades, I corresponded with an admirer named Charlie who wrote me impassioned letters, his handwriting getting bigger and darker to emphasize his compliments and feelings.
My best friend moved after college and we wrote back and forth weekly as she shared the frustrations of a California girl trying to adjust to New England (and marriage). When I first moved to Richmond, I regularly wrote to my Mom and some of my sisters about life after Dupont Circle.
Tellingly, I still have all of their letters.
But if someone wanted to suss out the story of my life through correspondence, they'd only have one side of the story - the letters written to me. I'm just about positive no one saved my letters.
So how could I not be intrigued to hear that Cheryl Jackson Baker, author of "Affectionately Yours: The Civil War Letters of William B. Jackson and His Wife Julia," was reading at Chop Suey tonight?
The Jacksons were her Ohio great-great grandparents and the trove of letters written from 1862 through 1866 had been found in her Dad's Florida closet after he died.
When I walked in, she was asking people in the room what had piqued their interest to attend her talk. Most said it was the Civil War angle or that they were history buffs. For me, it was all about the couple correspondence
Baker began by reading a letter from August 15, 1862 from William, stationed in Alabama, writing about the three mountain women who had visited camp hoping to trade things such as apples and pickled cucumbers for salt and sugar.
His letter said their dresses were fastened with thorns (reason #9257 the past would've held zero appeal for me) and that they inquired if there was any "chaw tobacco." Plugs in their mouths, they claimed it was the best chaw they'd ever had.
She read from a letter a bible quote, pointing out how rare that was. "Being Episcopalians, they didn't quote the bible often. I can say that because I'm an Episcopalian."
The letters she read were wonderful, with intimate details of daily life (Julia took quinine pills when she had headaches), references to home (peach trees) and exultations about the war's progress. Baker was especially pleased to get to read in Richmond a letter about Julia's rejoicing when she heard that Richmond was in the Union's possession (it wasn't true).
Through multiple letters, it became clear that Julia was a bit high maintenance, always nagging William to come home (just drop that silly war business and get back here) and reminding him how difficult her life was now.
If they don't let men come home more often, they'll have to put up insane asylums for the women.
Apparently, Julia also had a flair for the dramatic.
Baker kept things interesting by telling us about Chapter 5, also known as the sex chapter, where she'd assembled the most intimate of Julia and William's letters. Civil War shades of gray, so to speak.
"Just read that chapter!" a woman in the front row cajoled. Seems that William had heard about a way for Julia to use a "proxy" through the mail to have a baby while he was away. Oh, yes, we were definitely all curious about that.
But even without the smutty stuff, the eloquent letters, copies of which we saw in hand-outs, were written in the penmanship of people who practiced. Many words were underlined for emphasis. War and home front updates aside, they were full of affection and love for each other, written down so they could return to reread them whenever they chose to.
That's what we've lost with the passing of letter writing. Oh, sure, I've saved a few romantic e-mails over the years, but it's not the same as handwritten letters. Nothing is.
Parting way with the Episcopalians, my next stop was with the Baptists. As part of their summer "Classics in the Courtyard" series, First Baptist was showing the 1938 classic, "The Adventures of Robin Hood." Besides the obvious appeal of an outdoor movie on a summer night, I'd never seen an Errol Flynn movie.
I was ready to be swashbuckled.
Pulling into the parking lot at First Baptist, I see exactly two cars and a couple, folding chairs on their shoulders, looking disappointed. "It must be canceled," she says. "There's no movie screen, no people, no popcorn!"
Bummer.
On the plus side, I happen to know that there is music at Crossroads Coffee ("Forget the GOP debates. Come experience something positive"), so I turn the car around and head there, arriving during Annabeth McNamara's set of live, magical folk music.
Looking particularly fetching in a tiara, she plays guitar and banjo accompanied by cute couple Renee Byrd on drums and Logan Byrd on upright bass.
At the counter, I quietly order chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce, to which the guy verifies, "You want chocolate with chocolate?" I do. When he delivers it to me, it's with a look of pride. "I put chocolate sauce in the bottom, then the ice cream and chocolate sauce on top." This man could be my soul mate.
Among other things, the band plays through such folk standards as a heartbreak song, a sad song and perhaps most impressively, a song in the same key as "Margaritaville" that answers that song.
When they finish, Annabeth says, "Stick around for Lobo Marino coming up next. I feel like they're creating a community that's even more important than music." I'd attest to the same.
A woman comes in and sits down next to me, turning to ask if I've seen Lobo Marino before. Oh, please. I knew Jameson and Laney before they were Lobo Marino. But I am impressed that she's participated in the annual All Saints Halloween parade, a raucous event I've marched in many times.
She turns out to be an avid cyclist, an artist and an interesting one, having migrated to the city a couple of years ago after exile in the county and jumped into the local scene. We bond over our shared freelance status (she does graphic design), our days spent working alone at home and our mutual need to get out in the world by the end of the workday.
Lobo Marino, meanwhile, are weaving their mystical musical sounds with the garage door rolled up, the rain falling lightly outside and a guy near me standing entranced, eyes closed, hands clasped, swaying to every sound the duo produces. Staff and patrons move around him, so as to not disturb his reverie.
Singing "Holy River," they have the full attention of every person in the room, creating some sort of cosmic connection effortlessly as their voices blend and soar. This, my friends, is how these two are creating a community.
A hundred and fifty years ago, I'd have gone home and written a letter to my beloved, telling him about the conversations with my new friend, the seductive music I heard and how I wish he could have been with me. I might have gotten a little mushy. With any luck, I'd have put it as eloquently as the Alarm.
Our love is the faith that keeps on burning
I love to feel the rain in the summertime
I love to feel the rain on my face
P.S. Come home soon. None of us wants to end up in the insane asylum.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Take Five
Some nights are all about the simple pleasures.
I set out to check out L'Oppossum, eager to see how the former Pescado's China Street had been transformed.
When I expressed my preference for the bar over a table, the two gentlemen at the host stand assured me that the bartender would be friendly.
That was an understatement. He not only recognized me from eons ago, but even inquired about a mutual friend of ours.
There's really no escaping your past in this town.
Settling into the end stool, the first thing I noticed was all the interesting art on the wall interspersed with "Star Wars" plates. Behind the bar, I spotted a stuffed possum and a painting of Nick Cave.
It was a pleasure to see a restaurant that bore no resemblance to the current restaurant decor trend.
The second was the music, everything from Helen Reddy to the Delfonics "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time) with nary a cliched indie tune to be heard. Absolutely delightful.
The trio nearest me at the bar were soon replaced with the casually dressed director of the VMFA and his wife about the time my pale pink glass of fresh and fruity La Galope Rose Comte arrived.
I was told they'd sold out of nine bottles the first night they were open. Could it be that we are finally becoming a Rose town? Be still, my heart.
Apparently the director and his wife had been there before because I heard her tell the bartender that they were positively smitten with the place, rating it their new favorite.
Since it was my first visit, the menu was a blank slate to me so I began with the obvious: the el dorado low rider, a lobster taco with tomatillo sauce and decadent guacamole.
While there was the option to add the chef's surprise, I opted out of adding tonight's surprise of foie gras, not really needing my arteries to close down before Labor day.
Once I opened the conversational door by inquiring about the about music, the bartender boldly walked through, providing endless opinions and observations about music past and present.
I admire a man who appreciates a good pop song, no matter the genre.
We covered his first show (the Kinks), his thoughts on Television's first album, his recommendation of Comasat Angels and memories of early Cure.
At one point, a man came to the bar, credit card in hand, to order a beer. Seems he'd ordered a beer from his server at the table, but hadn't the patience to wait for it to arrive.
"I need a beer now," he clarified. "I'll still drink the one the server brings me." Off he went, beer in hand.
Man, that's some serious jonesing for a beer, friend.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was being asked what I wanted next. His suggestion was to get something I wouldn't want to share in case my next visit involved a companion.
Good thinking. I ordered escargots a la ham biscuit, which was exactly what it sounds like: a plate of escargot (and greens) with a ham biscuit adorned with, that's right, an escargot.
Proving I am my Richmond grandmother's granddaughter, I pulled off a piece of biscuit, slathered it with butter and devoured it to assess the biscuit worthiness.
Before long, it was just me at the bar, leaving the bartender to make drinks for tables and in between, chat with me.
About how Wilco started out aping Gram Parsons. How 20-somethings don't even know who Gram Parsons or the Flying Burrito Brothers are. About what pop gems the Strokes wrote.
I considered death by chocolate, but instead had another glass of Rose to accompany the music talk.
After anticipating a quick, solo meal, I'd been having such a terrific time talking with my fellow music lover, I'd completely lost track of time. Hours had passed and I now had somewhere to be.
Of all the unlikely places, it was with the Baptists. Just don't tell them I'd been imbibing.
I arrived at the courtyard at First Baptist on Monument, already knowing the drill for how this works.
Although tonight was the first of this year's courtyard classics I'd attended (and none last year because they were all cartoon movies), I've seen plenty of movies in the shadow of this church during other hot August nights.
Out host made sure everyone who wanted popcorn had gotten some because, he said, movies are more palatable when you're eating popcorn.
After a prayer of thanks for the nice breeze (I abstained), we were on to a 1954 MGM cartoon called "Dixieland Droopy" about a dog (a beagle, perhaps?) named John Irving Pettybone who loves Dixieland music.
Only problem is no one else does so he keeps getting kicked out of places like the "Good Rumor Ice Cream" truck for playing his Dixieland record.
After the record is broken, he lucks out by having a flea band take up residence in his tail and play non-stop Dixieland.
It was hysterical when the dog tells the flea band to "take five" and they hop off his back and approach some smoldering butts on the street, puffing away during their break and then going back to play.
Thus warmed up, we moved on to the main feature, a Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz classic called "The Long, Long Trailer."
Taking place in the pre-interstate era (1954), the story follows the newlyweds as they buy a trailer and car in which to honeymoon and then live happily ever after.
In a nod to the crowd, it had subtitles so you didn't have to listen too hard to understand the dialog.
Since I spent a good part of my childhood watching reruns of "I Love Lucy," I expected this to be similar so I was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't.
That said, their character names were Tacy and Nicky, but we'll let that slide.
But here Nicky was an engineer (not a bandleader) and Tacy wasn't quite as zany, unless you count hoarding rocks for the future garden she planned to plant once they arrived in Colorado, their goal.
It was very '50s, of course, with Tacy (frequently in hat and gloves) lobbying hard for the trailer purchase (by the way $5,345) so that, "No matter where were are, I could make home for you."
Aww, how sweetly Eisenhower years is that?
And speaking of that, all the roads were two lanes, policemen directed traffic at intersections and parking lots cost fifty cents.
While it wasn't "I Love Lucy," there was still plenty of physical humor such as Nicky hilariously fighting with the trailer shower head and Tacy trying to make a fancy dinner while the trailer is being pulled.
When she tells Nicky she's making beef ragout and a Cesar salad, he says he'll get out the Roquefort.
"Only boors use Roquefort," she corrects him. "Everyone knows it's Parmesan." Did everyone know that in 1954?
There's even a too cutesy scene of the two of them motoring along, Tacy stretched out on the giant bench seat of their Lincoln convertible, singing a song called "Breezin' Along."
That's how you know they're in love.
Well, that and Nicky says, "You could make me happy living in a cave." Doubtful, but we got his point.
The climax comes when they have to go over an 8,000 foot mountain and Nicky tells Tacy to jettison all the stuff she's been collecting, which of course she doesn't do.
During scenes of the trailer being pulled along high, narrow roads on the edge of a cliff, the crowd around me got vocal.
"Oh, my word!"
"Uh oh!"
"No, no, she's in trouble now!"
When the clouds are the ceiling in your outdoor movie theater, I guess it's just fine to talk to the characters in a fifty year old movie.
I didn't, but I'd also unexpectedly spent a whole lot of conversation at dinner, maybe all I had for the evening.
Doubtful, but you get my point.
I set out to check out L'Oppossum, eager to see how the former Pescado's China Street had been transformed.
When I expressed my preference for the bar over a table, the two gentlemen at the host stand assured me that the bartender would be friendly.
That was an understatement. He not only recognized me from eons ago, but even inquired about a mutual friend of ours.
There's really no escaping your past in this town.
Settling into the end stool, the first thing I noticed was all the interesting art on the wall interspersed with "Star Wars" plates. Behind the bar, I spotted a stuffed possum and a painting of Nick Cave.
It was a pleasure to see a restaurant that bore no resemblance to the current restaurant decor trend.
The second was the music, everything from Helen Reddy to the Delfonics "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time) with nary a cliched indie tune to be heard. Absolutely delightful.
The trio nearest me at the bar were soon replaced with the casually dressed director of the VMFA and his wife about the time my pale pink glass of fresh and fruity La Galope Rose Comte arrived.
I was told they'd sold out of nine bottles the first night they were open. Could it be that we are finally becoming a Rose town? Be still, my heart.
Apparently the director and his wife had been there before because I heard her tell the bartender that they were positively smitten with the place, rating it their new favorite.
Since it was my first visit, the menu was a blank slate to me so I began with the obvious: the el dorado low rider, a lobster taco with tomatillo sauce and decadent guacamole.
While there was the option to add the chef's surprise, I opted out of adding tonight's surprise of foie gras, not really needing my arteries to close down before Labor day.
Once I opened the conversational door by inquiring about the about music, the bartender boldly walked through, providing endless opinions and observations about music past and present.
I admire a man who appreciates a good pop song, no matter the genre.
We covered his first show (the Kinks), his thoughts on Television's first album, his recommendation of Comasat Angels and memories of early Cure.
At one point, a man came to the bar, credit card in hand, to order a beer. Seems he'd ordered a beer from his server at the table, but hadn't the patience to wait for it to arrive.
"I need a beer now," he clarified. "I'll still drink the one the server brings me." Off he went, beer in hand.
Man, that's some serious jonesing for a beer, friend.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was being asked what I wanted next. His suggestion was to get something I wouldn't want to share in case my next visit involved a companion.
Good thinking. I ordered escargots a la ham biscuit, which was exactly what it sounds like: a plate of escargot (and greens) with a ham biscuit adorned with, that's right, an escargot.
Proving I am my Richmond grandmother's granddaughter, I pulled off a piece of biscuit, slathered it with butter and devoured it to assess the biscuit worthiness.
Before long, it was just me at the bar, leaving the bartender to make drinks for tables and in between, chat with me.
About how Wilco started out aping Gram Parsons. How 20-somethings don't even know who Gram Parsons or the Flying Burrito Brothers are. About what pop gems the Strokes wrote.
I considered death by chocolate, but instead had another glass of Rose to accompany the music talk.
After anticipating a quick, solo meal, I'd been having such a terrific time talking with my fellow music lover, I'd completely lost track of time. Hours had passed and I now had somewhere to be.
Of all the unlikely places, it was with the Baptists. Just don't tell them I'd been imbibing.
I arrived at the courtyard at First Baptist on Monument, already knowing the drill for how this works.
Although tonight was the first of this year's courtyard classics I'd attended (and none last year because they were all cartoon movies), I've seen plenty of movies in the shadow of this church during other hot August nights.
Out host made sure everyone who wanted popcorn had gotten some because, he said, movies are more palatable when you're eating popcorn.
After a prayer of thanks for the nice breeze (I abstained), we were on to a 1954 MGM cartoon called "Dixieland Droopy" about a dog (a beagle, perhaps?) named John Irving Pettybone who loves Dixieland music.
Only problem is no one else does so he keeps getting kicked out of places like the "Good Rumor Ice Cream" truck for playing his Dixieland record.
After the record is broken, he lucks out by having a flea band take up residence in his tail and play non-stop Dixieland.
It was hysterical when the dog tells the flea band to "take five" and they hop off his back and approach some smoldering butts on the street, puffing away during their break and then going back to play.
Thus warmed up, we moved on to the main feature, a Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz classic called "The Long, Long Trailer."
Taking place in the pre-interstate era (1954), the story follows the newlyweds as they buy a trailer and car in which to honeymoon and then live happily ever after.
In a nod to the crowd, it had subtitles so you didn't have to listen too hard to understand the dialog.
Since I spent a good part of my childhood watching reruns of "I Love Lucy," I expected this to be similar so I was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't.
That said, their character names were Tacy and Nicky, but we'll let that slide.
But here Nicky was an engineer (not a bandleader) and Tacy wasn't quite as zany, unless you count hoarding rocks for the future garden she planned to plant once they arrived in Colorado, their goal.
It was very '50s, of course, with Tacy (frequently in hat and gloves) lobbying hard for the trailer purchase (by the way $5,345) so that, "No matter where were are, I could make home for you."
Aww, how sweetly Eisenhower years is that?
And speaking of that, all the roads were two lanes, policemen directed traffic at intersections and parking lots cost fifty cents.
While it wasn't "I Love Lucy," there was still plenty of physical humor such as Nicky hilariously fighting with the trailer shower head and Tacy trying to make a fancy dinner while the trailer is being pulled.
When she tells Nicky she's making beef ragout and a Cesar salad, he says he'll get out the Roquefort.
"Only boors use Roquefort," she corrects him. "Everyone knows it's Parmesan." Did everyone know that in 1954?
There's even a too cutesy scene of the two of them motoring along, Tacy stretched out on the giant bench seat of their Lincoln convertible, singing a song called "Breezin' Along."
That's how you know they're in love.
Well, that and Nicky says, "You could make me happy living in a cave." Doubtful, but we got his point.
During scenes of the trailer being pulled along high, narrow roads on the edge of a cliff, the crowd around me got vocal.
"Oh, my word!"
"Uh oh!"
"No, no, she's in trouble now!"
When the clouds are the ceiling in your outdoor movie theater, I guess it's just fine to talk to the characters in a fifty year old movie.
I didn't, but I'd also unexpectedly spent a whole lot of conversation at dinner, maybe all I had for the evening.
Doubtful, but you get my point.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
My Next One
Sometimes you just gotta say what's on your mind.
Architect Michael Graves should know and he was the reason I was at First Baptist Church tonight, sitting on a cushioned pew and wondering where the kneeling bench was.
You can make the girl a heathen, but the Catholic doctrine stays deeply ingrained. I can say that because I spent the first ten minutes waiting for the talk to begin noticing how un-ornamented Baptist churches are.
Once Michael Graves came out in his wheelchair, all conversation ceased.
Helene Dreilling, President of the Virginia Center for Architecture, joined him on the altar/stage. I'm sure I wasn't the only one pleased when her questions took a more personal slant rather than just topics for the roomful of architects (whom I assumed where all the nice-looking men in dark suits and top coats).
Michael began by reminiscing about his parents' canasta nights ("somewhere between bingo and bridge") where he was inevitably asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. When his response of "an artist!" got back to his conservative mother, she gently guided him in the more socially acceptable direction of a profession.
The eight-year old was okay with that as long as he could still draw. She offered him engineering or architecture and the rest is history.
He told of going to the University of Cincinnati, where he alternated classes and working to pay for an art education that left him clueless about Palladio. His graduate school education got a huge laugh when he said, "Just to be sure I never knew who Palladio was, I then went to Harvard."
Of the years at the American Academy of Rome he said, "The experience changed my life."
He glossed over teaching at Princeton and starting his own practice in 1964, admitting, "Everything I did came naturally." Clearly a lot came naturally.
But it was a life-changing illness in the early aughts that got him working on matters of health care. Talking about the chairs hospitals use to get patients from their rooms to treatment, he called them, "One of the most uncomfortable chairs in all of Christendom. Especially when you have to wait two hours in it."
And he would know.
He was full of great anecdotes, like the one about a Japanese architect who'd had it with Graves at a presentation about his work. The architect up-ended the table, depositing its entire contents onto Graves' lap, just to make himself perfectly clear.
His passion for cities was clear when he talked about places where people live, work, recreate and go to the theater as "organisms that work."
"Glass box buildings have no meaning for me," he said emphatically. "They're set back so far they take away the vibrancy of the sidewalks. I feel strongly about the role of buildings in the context of where they are."
Um, shouldn't all architects or is that just too 20th century?
His comments about Richmond, or the little he'd seen of it today, were spot on, at least as far as I'm concerned. "Richmond seems very livable to me. From what I've seen, it seems like you could take a walk after a coffee here."
The man may have been in a wheelchair, but his humor and intelligence shone through in practically everything he said.
There was no way not to talk about his association with Target and its 1700 stores and how he'd been able to do what the artists of the Bauhaus hadn't been - to bring good design to the masses. We heard that his next project is with J.C. Penney, which he characterized as, "A little creepy in there," before the revamping currently going on. He promised that the 300 items which will be sold in the Michael Graves department, "Will do more than put a smile on your face."
Near the end, Helene told him that at recent Virginia Center for Architecture board meeting, one of the board members had asked her if Michael would sign her toaster. "So be warned that she may come find you to ask," Helene said.
"She already did," he deadpanned, making me think I should have brought my teakettle for him to initial.
Talking about his massive resort project in Shanghai, he was just as low key. "The client was a man of no taste." No taste, but enough grace at least to name one of the hotels after Michael ("That'll eventually be changed," he predicted with a smile).
The unexpected benefit of that was a letter he received from a newly pregnant couple who'd been trying unsuccessfully for years to conceive. "We stayed at the Hotel Michael and now we're expecting," they wrote.
"That's what it's about," Michael said, laughing.
He was just as amusing talking about the project to cover the Washington monument in scaffolding during restoration. When Hillary read that the scaffolding would be lit all night, she called up Michael, worried that Bill's bedroom faced the monument and if it was lit at night, it might shine unpleasantly.
Michael assured Hillary that it wouldn't bother the President. "Anyway, he knows how to find dark places," he joked to us.
Toward the end of the talk, he was just as lively, but talking about bigger things. "All my work is out there. It's public for everyone to see," he said. "We don't have a chance to do B+ work."
When asked to compare Rome, a city he still loves, with an American city, he named several worthy contenders: San Francisco, New Orleans, Boston and South Beach, speaking longest and most enthusiastically about the latter. "South Beach is so distinctively different. It's like going to a village in Tuscany. It's a downtown done on a delicate scale."
On the subject of his long experiences in hospitals and finding a mission in making them more disabled-friendly, he was clear. "I'm gonna change it one hospital at a time." If you'd heard him say it, you'd know he will.
And he has already, working with Stryker and other companies to create equipment, furniture and living quarters that put everything within reach for the disabled. "I will fight for all of us," he promised.
When asked his favorite project, his answer was sunny. "My next one!"
During the more than an hour he talked, I continued to marvel that this world-famous architect was sitting in a Baptist church in Richmond, talking to a roomful of admirers for free. Better living thanks to corporate sponsorship. Sure, I'll give them a round of applause for that.
After the talk, Michael and probably a lot of the people in the room, were going over two blocks to the Virginia Center for Architecture for a dinner with Graves. At $100 a seat, it was well beyond my budget, but I was just as thrilled to have listened to this talented man who'd only wanted to draw for a living since he was a kid. A man who talked about an upcoming architectural award winner and his winning design by stating, "It's bullshit."
A man who also laughed and said, "There are things you don't need to say," and proceeded to tell us more. The city-loving man who'd designed the teakettle that sits on my stove.
"At my age, there aren't that many days left and you've just got to say things," he said in closing. Hell, at my age, there are plenty of days left and I've just got to say things.
In this case, thank you to Michael Graves for gracing Richmond with your presence.
I like your attitude.
Architect Michael Graves should know and he was the reason I was at First Baptist Church tonight, sitting on a cushioned pew and wondering where the kneeling bench was.
You can make the girl a heathen, but the Catholic doctrine stays deeply ingrained. I can say that because I spent the first ten minutes waiting for the talk to begin noticing how un-ornamented Baptist churches are.
Once Michael Graves came out in his wheelchair, all conversation ceased.
Helene Dreilling, President of the Virginia Center for Architecture, joined him on the altar/stage. I'm sure I wasn't the only one pleased when her questions took a more personal slant rather than just topics for the roomful of architects (whom I assumed where all the nice-looking men in dark suits and top coats).
Michael began by reminiscing about his parents' canasta nights ("somewhere between bingo and bridge") where he was inevitably asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. When his response of "an artist!" got back to his conservative mother, she gently guided him in the more socially acceptable direction of a profession.
The eight-year old was okay with that as long as he could still draw. She offered him engineering or architecture and the rest is history.
He told of going to the University of Cincinnati, where he alternated classes and working to pay for an art education that left him clueless about Palladio. His graduate school education got a huge laugh when he said, "Just to be sure I never knew who Palladio was, I then went to Harvard."
Of the years at the American Academy of Rome he said, "The experience changed my life."
He glossed over teaching at Princeton and starting his own practice in 1964, admitting, "Everything I did came naturally." Clearly a lot came naturally.
But it was a life-changing illness in the early aughts that got him working on matters of health care. Talking about the chairs hospitals use to get patients from their rooms to treatment, he called them, "One of the most uncomfortable chairs in all of Christendom. Especially when you have to wait two hours in it."
And he would know.
He was full of great anecdotes, like the one about a Japanese architect who'd had it with Graves at a presentation about his work. The architect up-ended the table, depositing its entire contents onto Graves' lap, just to make himself perfectly clear.
His passion for cities was clear when he talked about places where people live, work, recreate and go to the theater as "organisms that work."
"Glass box buildings have no meaning for me," he said emphatically. "They're set back so far they take away the vibrancy of the sidewalks. I feel strongly about the role of buildings in the context of where they are."
Um, shouldn't all architects or is that just too 20th century?
His comments about Richmond, or the little he'd seen of it today, were spot on, at least as far as I'm concerned. "Richmond seems very livable to me. From what I've seen, it seems like you could take a walk after a coffee here."
The man may have been in a wheelchair, but his humor and intelligence shone through in practically everything he said.
There was no way not to talk about his association with Target and its 1700 stores and how he'd been able to do what the artists of the Bauhaus hadn't been - to bring good design to the masses. We heard that his next project is with J.C. Penney, which he characterized as, "A little creepy in there," before the revamping currently going on. He promised that the 300 items which will be sold in the Michael Graves department, "Will do more than put a smile on your face."
Near the end, Helene told him that at recent Virginia Center for Architecture board meeting, one of the board members had asked her if Michael would sign her toaster. "So be warned that she may come find you to ask," Helene said.
"She already did," he deadpanned, making me think I should have brought my teakettle for him to initial.
Talking about his massive resort project in Shanghai, he was just as low key. "The client was a man of no taste." No taste, but enough grace at least to name one of the hotels after Michael ("That'll eventually be changed," he predicted with a smile).
The unexpected benefit of that was a letter he received from a newly pregnant couple who'd been trying unsuccessfully for years to conceive. "We stayed at the Hotel Michael and now we're expecting," they wrote.
"That's what it's about," Michael said, laughing.
He was just as amusing talking about the project to cover the Washington monument in scaffolding during restoration. When Hillary read that the scaffolding would be lit all night, she called up Michael, worried that Bill's bedroom faced the monument and if it was lit at night, it might shine unpleasantly.
Michael assured Hillary that it wouldn't bother the President. "Anyway, he knows how to find dark places," he joked to us.
Toward the end of the talk, he was just as lively, but talking about bigger things. "All my work is out there. It's public for everyone to see," he said. "We don't have a chance to do B+ work."
When asked to compare Rome, a city he still loves, with an American city, he named several worthy contenders: San Francisco, New Orleans, Boston and South Beach, speaking longest and most enthusiastically about the latter. "South Beach is so distinctively different. It's like going to a village in Tuscany. It's a downtown done on a delicate scale."
On the subject of his long experiences in hospitals and finding a mission in making them more disabled-friendly, he was clear. "I'm gonna change it one hospital at a time." If you'd heard him say it, you'd know he will.
And he has already, working with Stryker and other companies to create equipment, furniture and living quarters that put everything within reach for the disabled. "I will fight for all of us," he promised.
When asked his favorite project, his answer was sunny. "My next one!"
During the more than an hour he talked, I continued to marvel that this world-famous architect was sitting in a Baptist church in Richmond, talking to a roomful of admirers for free. Better living thanks to corporate sponsorship. Sure, I'll give them a round of applause for that.
After the talk, Michael and probably a lot of the people in the room, were going over two blocks to the Virginia Center for Architecture for a dinner with Graves. At $100 a seat, it was well beyond my budget, but I was just as thrilled to have listened to this talented man who'd only wanted to draw for a living since he was a kid. A man who talked about an upcoming architectural award winner and his winning design by stating, "It's bullshit."
A man who also laughed and said, "There are things you don't need to say," and proceeded to tell us more. The city-loving man who'd designed the teakettle that sits on my stove.
"At my age, there aren't that many days left and you've just got to say things," he said in closing. Hell, at my age, there are plenty of days left and I've just got to say things.
In this case, thank you to Michael Graves for gracing Richmond with your presence.
I like your attitude.
Friday, August 31, 2012
A Lucky Cuss
Some enchanted evening, you may meet a stranger who offers to steal from a church.
In this case, the church was First Baptist and the problem was in the ladies' room.
There was no toilet paper.
Not in the stall or in the cabinet or drawers, not anywhere.
As an older woman and I scoured the bathroom, another woman walked in and discovered our dilemma.
"Is this your church?" she asked me, clearly unable to see that I was a heathen.
Nope, I told her.
"Mine, either," she smiled. "So I'll go to the other bathroom and steal some."
That's just how Christians roll, I guess.
After making do with hand towels, I returned to my seat and my friend only to find the overture had begun.
Tonight was the final night of the "Classics in the Courtyard" series and the big finale was "South Pacific," which I'd seen as a play twice, but never the movie.
Leave it to Hollywood to cast an Italian as a Frenchman.
I happen to know for a fact that they're not interchangeable, although a Frenchman once told me that if I couldn't find a good man from southern France, an Italian would do.
The movie's credits included thanking the Department of Defense, the Navy and the Pacific Fleet, although even after seeing the film, I still don't know what they did.
I always enjoy the period details of mid-century films, things like the pilot of the plane smoking a cigar in the cockpit as he dodges Japanese gunfire.
"South Pacific" was made in 1958, back when men still called women dames.
Nothing else was built the same
Nothing in the world
As the soft and wavy frame
Like the silhouette of a dame
There is absolutely nothing like the frame of a dame!
And back when we named their hips.
Her hair is blond and curly
Her curls are hurly burly
Her lips are pips
I call her hips "Twirly" and "Whirly"
A scene that got an unexpected response from the crowd dealt with age.
When Lt. Cable.learns Nelly is in love with Emile, he says, "That's hard to believe, sir. They tell me he's a middle-aged man."
The captain, himself past fifty, is not amused, shooting back, "Cable, it is a common mistake for boys of your age and athletic ability to underestimate men who have reached their maturity."
The mostly middle-aged and older audience found this hilarious, laughing out loud throughout the entire scene.
Mitzi Gaynor was adorable as Nelly and her very 1950s body with a tiny waist, curvy hips and thighs would look completely out of place by today's standards.
Curves aside, she knew how to play a small-town girl believably.
I'm as corny as Kansas in August
I'm as normal as blueberry pie
No more a smart little girl with no heart
I have found me a wonderful guy
And her point to Emile for why they were attracted to each other was one that resonated with this viewer.
"We're the same. We appreciate things. We get excited about things. We're not blase."
Like a lot of fifties movies, this one had its share of political incorrectness.
The scene where Bloody Mary brings the lieutenant to a hut to meet her teen-aged daughter smacked of something uncomfortably inappropriate, which the songwriters must have realized, necessitating the cheery "Happy Talk."
Talk about the boy saying to the girl
Golly, baby, I'm a lucky cuss
Talk about the girl saying to the boy
You and me is lucky to be us
Likewise, only Rodgers and Hammerstein could write a song about how prejudice is learned.
You've got to be taught before it's too late
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught
Because I'd been to two previous musicals of the series, by tonight I was a pro.
I brought candy to share with my girlfriend.
I was charmed rather than annoyed when a bird began flying around behind the screen, casting its shadow on the movie.
And when the explosions began, I immediately knew they were from the fireworks at the Diamond and not nearby gunfire, as some people had worried when it happened the first night.
So I finally got to see "South Pacific" on the big screen and under a nearly full moon.
Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing
You may hear her laughing
Across a crowded room
And night after night
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams
I must be as normal as blueberry pie to have enjoyed "South Pacific" in all its corny and un-PC glory.
But there's nothing like a dame who relishes a good love story about a middle-aged man.
Or even a cock-eyed optimist who wants to sit in a church courtyard at night with strangers.
She may not be younger than springtime, but she did remember the Milk Duds.
In this case, the church was First Baptist and the problem was in the ladies' room.
There was no toilet paper.
Not in the stall or in the cabinet or drawers, not anywhere.
As an older woman and I scoured the bathroom, another woman walked in and discovered our dilemma.
"Is this your church?" she asked me, clearly unable to see that I was a heathen.
Nope, I told her.
"Mine, either," she smiled. "So I'll go to the other bathroom and steal some."
That's just how Christians roll, I guess.
After making do with hand towels, I returned to my seat and my friend only to find the overture had begun.
Tonight was the final night of the "Classics in the Courtyard" series and the big finale was "South Pacific," which I'd seen as a play twice, but never the movie.
Leave it to Hollywood to cast an Italian as a Frenchman.
I happen to know for a fact that they're not interchangeable, although a Frenchman once told me that if I couldn't find a good man from southern France, an Italian would do.
The movie's credits included thanking the Department of Defense, the Navy and the Pacific Fleet, although even after seeing the film, I still don't know what they did.
I always enjoy the period details of mid-century films, things like the pilot of the plane smoking a cigar in the cockpit as he dodges Japanese gunfire.
"South Pacific" was made in 1958, back when men still called women dames.
Nothing else was built the same
Nothing in the world
As the soft and wavy frame
Like the silhouette of a dame
There is absolutely nothing like the frame of a dame!
And back when we named their hips.
Her hair is blond and curly
Her curls are hurly burly
Her lips are pips
I call her hips "Twirly" and "Whirly"
A scene that got an unexpected response from the crowd dealt with age.
When Lt. Cable.learns Nelly is in love with Emile, he says, "That's hard to believe, sir. They tell me he's a middle-aged man."
The captain, himself past fifty, is not amused, shooting back, "Cable, it is a common mistake for boys of your age and athletic ability to underestimate men who have reached their maturity."
The mostly middle-aged and older audience found this hilarious, laughing out loud throughout the entire scene.
Mitzi Gaynor was adorable as Nelly and her very 1950s body with a tiny waist, curvy hips and thighs would look completely out of place by today's standards.
Curves aside, she knew how to play a small-town girl believably.
I'm as corny as Kansas in August
I'm as normal as blueberry pie
No more a smart little girl with no heart
I have found me a wonderful guy
And her point to Emile for why they were attracted to each other was one that resonated with this viewer.
"We're the same. We appreciate things. We get excited about things. We're not blase."
Like a lot of fifties movies, this one had its share of political incorrectness.
The scene where Bloody Mary brings the lieutenant to a hut to meet her teen-aged daughter smacked of something uncomfortably inappropriate, which the songwriters must have realized, necessitating the cheery "Happy Talk."
Talk about the boy saying to the girl
Golly, baby, I'm a lucky cuss
Talk about the girl saying to the boy
You and me is lucky to be us
Likewise, only Rodgers and Hammerstein could write a song about how prejudice is learned.
You've got to be taught before it's too late
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught
Because I'd been to two previous musicals of the series, by tonight I was a pro.
I brought candy to share with my girlfriend.
I was charmed rather than annoyed when a bird began flying around behind the screen, casting its shadow on the movie.
And when the explosions began, I immediately knew they were from the fireworks at the Diamond and not nearby gunfire, as some people had worried when it happened the first night.
So I finally got to see "South Pacific" on the big screen and under a nearly full moon.
Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing
You may hear her laughing
Across a crowded room
And night after night
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams
I must be as normal as blueberry pie to have enjoyed "South Pacific" in all its corny and un-PC glory.
But there's nothing like a dame who relishes a good love story about a middle-aged man.
Or even a cock-eyed optimist who wants to sit in a church courtyard at night with strangers.
She may not be younger than springtime, but she did remember the Milk Duds.
Friday, August 10, 2012
This Kind of Thing Can Happen
Ice cream, it's what's for dinner.
Maybe it was the late lunch, maybe it was the busy day, but when I got to that point in the day, I ended up at Bev's for a double hot fudge sundae and called it a meal.
Honestly, I didn't have a lot of time because I wanted to make it to the Classics in the Courtyard series tonight because they were showing "The King and I" on the big screen in the garden at First Baptist.
Admittedly, I'm a heathen so what do I know about what's inside churches, but my foray inside to go to the bathroom revealed a few surprises.
Like a computer in the vestibule.
A rack of plastic umbrella bags like the kind I've seen in Kroger.
And a sign on the doors to the sanctuary saying "No food, drink pagers or cell phones."
People need to be told that those things are inappropriate in a room where services are held?
Hell, I'm a heathen and I could have guessed that.
Back in my chair in the courtyard, a church official announced that the movie would start at 8:00 or dusk, whichever came later.
"Dusk is going to win tonight," he predicted. It did.
The air was fragrant with the scent of bug spray as the overture finally began playing and people settled down.
I might have seen "The King and I" once, but if so it had been so long that a lot of it seemed new to me, including several of the songs.
Of course, it was 1956 Hollywood's version of Siam, so it was riddled with things like non-Asian actors (the king of Siam played by a Russian and a Burmese princess played by a Puerto Rican, for instance) and African elephants.
But I wasn't there for historical or geographical accuracy, I was there for songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Technicolor sets and costumes.
The blatant sexism of the king's character was an unexpectedly funny bonus, even given an 1862 setting.
Anna: Then how do you explain, your majesty, that many men remain faithful to only one wife?
King: They are sick.
Anna: Oh, but you do expect women to be faithful.
King; Naturally.
That's one way to look at it.
A woman is designed for pleasing a man. That is all. A man is designed to be pleased by many women.
It was a convenient philosophy for a man who had a harem of wives (and the resultant 104 children).
Why should I discuss what matters with a woman?
Um, because we're smart?
I don't think I was the only one surprised when the screen changed to say "Intermission" with part of the score once again being played.
The line, "We danced to that once in Richmond, remember?" got a big reaction from the audience, even given that it was a Richmond on Thames reference.
Of course there was all kinds of implied romance.
A man, even a king, doesn't say, "You are very difficult woman!" unless he's seriously attracted to you, whether it's 1862 or 2012.
And "Shall We Dance?" has to be one of the most rousing acts of foreplay ever committed to film.
Polka-ing with bare shoulders, bare feet and a man's hand on a corseted waist had enough sexual tension to elevate the whole story suddenly to a romance.
And if this heathen is going to sit in a church courtyard on a summer night, the least I can hope for is a little romance to go with the rustling treetops and flitting fireflies.
Or perchance
When the last little star has left the sky
Shall we still be together
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?
Maybe it was the late lunch, maybe it was the busy day, but when I got to that point in the day, I ended up at Bev's for a double hot fudge sundae and called it a meal.
Honestly, I didn't have a lot of time because I wanted to make it to the Classics in the Courtyard series tonight because they were showing "The King and I" on the big screen in the garden at First Baptist.
Admittedly, I'm a heathen so what do I know about what's inside churches, but my foray inside to go to the bathroom revealed a few surprises.
Like a computer in the vestibule.
A rack of plastic umbrella bags like the kind I've seen in Kroger.
And a sign on the doors to the sanctuary saying "No food, drink pagers or cell phones."
People need to be told that those things are inappropriate in a room where services are held?
Hell, I'm a heathen and I could have guessed that.
Back in my chair in the courtyard, a church official announced that the movie would start at 8:00 or dusk, whichever came later.
"Dusk is going to win tonight," he predicted. It did.
The air was fragrant with the scent of bug spray as the overture finally began playing and people settled down.
I might have seen "The King and I" once, but if so it had been so long that a lot of it seemed new to me, including several of the songs.
Of course, it was 1956 Hollywood's version of Siam, so it was riddled with things like non-Asian actors (the king of Siam played by a Russian and a Burmese princess played by a Puerto Rican, for instance) and African elephants.
But I wasn't there for historical or geographical accuracy, I was there for songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Technicolor sets and costumes.
The blatant sexism of the king's character was an unexpectedly funny bonus, even given an 1862 setting.
Anna: Then how do you explain, your majesty, that many men remain faithful to only one wife?
King: They are sick.
Anna: Oh, but you do expect women to be faithful.
King; Naturally.
That's one way to look at it.
A woman is designed for pleasing a man. That is all. A man is designed to be pleased by many women.
It was a convenient philosophy for a man who had a harem of wives (and the resultant 104 children).
Why should I discuss what matters with a woman?
Um, because we're smart?
I don't think I was the only one surprised when the screen changed to say "Intermission" with part of the score once again being played.
The line, "We danced to that once in Richmond, remember?" got a big reaction from the audience, even given that it was a Richmond on Thames reference.
Of course there was all kinds of implied romance.
A man, even a king, doesn't say, "You are very difficult woman!" unless he's seriously attracted to you, whether it's 1862 or 2012.
And "Shall We Dance?" has to be one of the most rousing acts of foreplay ever committed to film.
Polka-ing with bare shoulders, bare feet and a man's hand on a corseted waist had enough sexual tension to elevate the whole story suddenly to a romance.
And if this heathen is going to sit in a church courtyard on a summer night, the least I can hope for is a little romance to go with the rustling treetops and flitting fireflies.
Or perchance
When the last little star has left the sky
Shall we still be together
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?
Friday, August 3, 2012
Church Popcorn for Beginners
Firsts abounded tonight.
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
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