Collar, Meet Skirts

We might have been willing to trespass, but not to use the walkie talkie.

Mac and I started the day walking at the river and as we came back up toward Capital Hill, we spotted a bus marked "C-SPAN Bus 50 Capitals Tour," whatever that was. With nothing better to do, we climbed aboard and found ourselves in a tricked out multi-media explosion of touch screens and eager guides.

After taking a quiz about democracy (9/10, so not bad), a guide explained that the bus was visiting every state capital (Alaska and Hawaii will require a barge) over the next year.

We were offered the opportunity to be filmed for 30 seconds about our greatest concern for the country (hello, race relations), but opted out (me: too hot and sweaty, Mac: too nervous).

The illustrious L. Doug Wilder had already said his piece before we arrived, although I'd bet they didn't limit him to any 30 seconds.

Back in Jackson Ward, we stopped in our tracks when we saw a trio of tourists in town for the Aglow convention (some kind of ministry begun by women) looking perplexed at the map in their hands.

Turns out they were from Washington state (when I mentioned Virginia wine, they assured me their state made wine, too), staying at the Air BnB over Lucy's (points for choosing such a central location) and looking for some guidance on walkable markets and restaurants (when I asked if they liked oysters, one told me she couldn't eat them because they went right through her whole).

In other words, they'd hit the jackpot.

A tourist really couldn't luck into anyone better than Mac and me to guide them through their first visit, mark up their map with restaurant suggestions or direct them to a market for coffee and assorted necessities.

Let's put it this way: it wasn't enough to introduce themselves, they also needed to hug us in gratitude. Also I'm guessing they won't make it to Rapp Session.

Our evening began at the Library of Virginia for a panel discussion, "Virginia Vice: Legislating Morality" focusing on moonshine, marijuana and film and how the commonwealth tried to save us from them all.

I immediately recognized one of the panelists, Max Watman, who'd written a book about moonshine because in 2010 I'd gone to a reading at Chop Suey where he'd passed around a Ball jar of moonshine for us to sip as he read.

And, yes, that's as illegal as it sounds.

The other three panelists - Adam Rathge, Melissa Ooten and Kevin Kosar - were new to me but full of obscure informtaion about their areas of expertise: weed, film and whiskey.

Fun facts gleaned from the discussion: New Zealand is one of the rare places where it's legal for people to distill hard liquor at home. Most films banned by Virginia's film censorship board were made by black filmmakers. Philly is the biggest moonshine market in the country. Pot only became an issue once people began worrying that white kids would use it and not just black jazz musicians.

It always comes back to race, doesn't it?

Best quote about Bristol, Virginia: "Tennessee gets the revenue and Virginia gets the drunks." That's what you get when the government's in the alcohol business, kids.

We sneaked out toward the end of the Q & A because we needed to eat before going to a play and it was getting late. It was all fun and games until we realized we were locked in the library's parking garage.

Mac was at least smart enough to go into the guard's booth and hit the button that lifted the arm to let us out of the garage, but then we realized that both the gates were down that led to the street. Back to the booth we both went, but with no clue what to do to raise the gates.

Fearlessly, we pushed buttons to no effect, tried both phones (neither worked) and gave up on trying the walkie talkie because we had no idea how it worked. Mac headed upstairs to find a savior while I guarded the car and eventually, with a guard's assistance, we escaped.

With less than half an hour to eat, we settled on Monroe Ward fast food, aka Tarrant's back door, to score a fish sandwich for Mac and a slice of pizza the size of my head for me.

It wasn't anybody's first choice, but neither was starving through a play.

We got lost getting to Pine Camp Theater (because I'm navigationally challenged despite having been there plenty of times), but arrived in time to hear a most excellent pre-show soundtrack (because what could be better than hearing the Delfonics' "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?" after so many years?).

Heritage Theater Ensemble's "Wine in the Wilderness" was set during the Harlem race riots of 1964 - caused, it should be noted in 2017, by the wrongful death of a 15-year old by a cop - and set up a compelling metaphor inside a Harlem apartment while the riots raged on outside.

An educated black painter who thinks he knows what men want (a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and an ideal woman) is introduced to a woman less educated and refined ("You're too brash, too used to looking out for yourself") but more intuitive about human nature and sparks fly, but not immediately the good kind.

As the old timer puts it, "A man's collar and a woman's skirts, may they never meet." At least until they do and she's smiling and wearing his dashiki the next morning.

The standout in the cast was actress Dorothy Miller who nailed the insecurity of a woman in a bad wig and dowdy clothing accustomed to being pushed around by life and just as ably conveyed the epitome of a strong and beautiful black woman ready to fight back when she's wronged and take down those who think they're above her.

Best of all, it ended with even more Delfonics - "La La Means I Love You" - which should tell you everything ended happily, aside from police continuing to kill unarmed citizens.

I know, I know, too brash. I'm working on that. No, really.

You're So Columbo

Like it or not, I am a product of my time.

You can lead a 20th century woman to digitally-manipulated photographs, but you can't stop her from looking for reality where none exists.

Tonight was the opening of "Chop Shop" at Gandela Gallery, a show of seven artists transforming photographic images through digital manipulation, with four of the artists talking to kick things off.

One of the photographers, Tom Chambers, referred to the pieces as a "distortion of the truth. Call them alternative facts, that's me and Donny."

Please don't remind us.

Nadine Boughton's works used cut-out magazine photographs from the 40s, '50s and early '60s to comment on gender issues and raise a cloud of ambiguity, while Peter Leighton combined elements from different vintage photos into a wholly new image. Blythe King used women from the pages of the Montgomery Ward catalog to reinterpret women's roles and filter it through a haze of divinity, as only a millennial can do.

My problem is my brain forgets to adjust for the 21st century, so it looks at these images and tries to find the reality there and no such thing exists. I'm looking for evidence of collage and mixed media and these photographs reflect a world that never was.

Desperately seeking a way to ground these pictures in what my mind recognizes, I have to finally accept them as shaping their own design independent of truth.

A metaphor, perhaps, for this cowardly, new world we live in.

Likewise, you can go see Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's "Choirboy" at Richmond Triangle Players and find yourself mulling the same hard truths that defined the Oscar-winning film "Moonlight": it's not easy to be gay and out in the black community, much less at a tony black prep school.

Besides the pleasure of watching talented young actors I'd not seen before, the play was also a showcase for gospel music and multiple-part harmonies that could make the hair on your arms stand up when they sang a capella (for the most part, the only accompaniment was snapping fingers and stomping feet, sometimes from backstage) just opening their mouths.

It was another in the Acts of Faith Festival that dances around issues of faith in ways that even full-blown heathens like me can digest and appreciate.

Which is more than I can say for the dinner my hired mouth, favorite walking companion and I began the night with. Ah, well.

As Meat Loaf the philosopher would say, two out of three ain't bad.

Ginger Ale for Two

Some people I know have a "dressing drink" but I'm of the opinion that the "dressing soundtrack" is even more essential...and occasionally educational, too.

Tonight's began with hearing the Carpenters do a husky-voiced cover of "Masquerade," a song I'd always associated with George Benson, at least up until I read those Leon Russell obituaries last week and discovered it's his song, which only means now I need to hear his version.

And so the tangents began...

Listening to Karen Carpenter had me recalling a Chrissie Hynde interview from the 90s(?) where she was saying how much she idolized Karen's breath control and singing ability and tried to imitate it, a musical homage that made sense to me the moment I read it.

And sensibly is how you make your pre-theater dinner plans to ensure making an 8:00 curtain.

I never tire of taking first-timers to My Noodle and watching the look of delight on their faces when they experience the semi-privacy of the multi-level tiki booths. That they can also dish up a green curry to he who swears that he's never had a decent green curry in this town speaks volumes.

The schizophrenic soundtrack - Benny Goodman to the XX - won points with the music obsessive, while the fake fireplace just looked silly, but there's no question, I made another convert.

Of course, some would call me an idiot for turning so many people on to my fave neighborhood Chinese joint, but to share is divine, no?

My date was surprised to hear that Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's production of "Ceremonies in Dark Old Men" was happening at Pine Camp because his only memory of it was 20 years ago and all he recalled were sports fields.

And now? Galleries, classrooms, an auditorium. Just goes to show some people don't get out quite often enough.

We got there early enough to have a good blather first, although we didn't get to the really juicy subjects until three minutes before curtain, leaving an unknown ending for the listener when a key anecdote had to be curtailed abruptly.

Cards on the table, please.

Given the small Thursday crowd, we had our pick of seats for the Pulitzer Prize-nominated 1969 play, a classic from the Harlem Renaissance according to the program. Set in 1958, it reminded me of "A Raisin in the Sun" with the same sort of characters and issues of striving and surviving.

That's how you won her. Kept her laughing.

It was all about a black family after the mother (who supports all of them) dies, telling the story of what happens once the sole employed family member, the daughter, tells her unemployed father and two brothers they have to find work or move out of the house where she pays the rent.

You can't just go around killing people and getting away with it. Who does he think he is, white?

Watching the tragicomedy unfold, I couldn't help but wonder how I'd never even heard of this important play before. Just as perplexing was seeing talent onstage that I'd never seen before, despite being a regular theater goer.

It was impossible to take your eyes off of Foree Shalom as deeply damaged and ultimate bad guy Blue Haven (in blue suits, naturally), while Toney Q. Cobb ( know, best name ever, right?) effortlessly inhabited the lazy father content to play checkers and relive his glory days on Vaudeville instead of attracting customers to his empty barber shop.

Ain't nothing meaner than an American-born cracker.

Watching a play like this, I couldn't help but be grateful to Heritage Ensemble for satisfyingly producing a classic piece of black theater that deserves to be seen by audiences of all colors still dealing with the same racial issues 47 years later.

Who the hell ever told every black woman she was some kind of goddam savior?

For that matter, who the hell doesn't have an "undressing soundtrack" when possible? "And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out" winds up being Yo la Tengo's extended goodnight. Fitting.

Nothing Routine About It

People are always talking about what a fabulous art and music town this is and they're right.

But, my god, it's an absolutely killer theater town, too and witnessing yet another fledgling theater company's work tonight, I am dumbstruck yet again that there's so much theatrical talent in Richmond, onstage and behind the scenes.

After seeing Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow was Enuf" last week, there was no way I was missing out on the play written ten years later as a response to it, namely "For Black Boys Who Have Considered Homicide When the Streets Were Too Much."

Right on, right on is all I can say.

The two films have been rotating in repertory at Firehouse Theatre, so their artistic director welcomed the crowd, impressing upon us how incredibly lucky we were that Heritage was presenting these plays on alternate nights.

And, man, he wasn't lying.

Like "Colored Girls," the story was told in choreo-poem form by six black men identified only by the number on their chest.

It was a terrifically talented ensemble cast, but also very disturbing in that I had only seen one of the actors onstage before.

Honestly, given their acting chops, I don't even know how that's possible, but there you have it. Like everything else, it's just easier to be white, no matter your profession.

Through a series of vignettes and using no props except six black boxes, the men told their stories of knowing they were born only to die too soon.

In one scene where they danced, the crowd cracked up when they imitated white boys dancing. A sad scene involved a little boy telling how he used Nina Simone records for solace during a difficult childhood.

Millennials didn't get it, but older members of the audience laughed out loud to references to the TV show "Dark Shadows" and its vampire hero, Barnabas Collins. I may never have seen the show but I definitely knew of the dated reference.

In many ways, the play came across as a tragedy with one man explaining that, "Nobody came, nobody saw. I was just another routine autopsy."

But each of the men also told of wanting to love and be loved despite being told that black boys aren't supposed to be loved.

The crowd about lost it when #17 knelt down in front of a woman in the front row and, with a slow jam playing in the background, made verbal love to her while stroking her hand and staring deeply into her eyes.

I am rain. I come to make love to you.

When he returned to stage, she turned to the audience and said, "Don't fuss at me," knowing that every woman in the room was wishing she'd been chosen.

Adrift after his woman leaves him, one man addresses his woman, saying, "You say you love me so much, more than Patti LaBelle likes to sing, more than Martin Luther King had a dream," trying to figure out what went wrong.

Another, a successful IT guy who only wanted to be comfortable in life, has his world turned upside down when, while working late, he's picked up by the cops for a rape nearby simply because of racial profiling.

I am an endangered species but I sing no victory song.

Watching such a powerful play unfold, it was tough not to resent that we still live in a world where works as penetrating as this don't get produced nearly often enough and actors as compelling as these don't show up in enough productions around Richmond despite their talent. And I can say that with some authority because I see so much of what does get produced here.

Which brings us back to my original point (Stay on script, Karen), that we are incredibly fortunate that a new theater company, dedicated to producing more works by black playwrights and casting more roles with black talent has joined the robust theater scene we already enjoy.

In an era of #BlackLivesMatter, I think we can all agree that black art matters as well and that Richmond will never be the best theater town it can be without including more of it.

Enter Heritage Theatre Company, take a bow and keep up the good work.

You're just what this theater town needed.

At Rainbow's End

Alcohol won't solve all your problems, but neither will milk. ~ sign outside Bellytimber

Culture won't make you more lovable, but it certainly doesn't hurt.

After nearly getting creamed by an excavator-like contraption speeding through a red light - the driver and I actually locked eyes when he realized his error - I took deep breaths all the way to the Branch Museum for a lecture.

Waiting for a friend to arrive and the talk to begin, I eavesdropped on a conversation about Richmond's neighborhoods between a newer arrival and a born-here (bow tie = dead giveaway).

The guy being asked mentioned how he lives on Monument Avenue and when they moved in, they met a woman two houses down who'd lived on that block for 91 years, making her a walking encyclopedia of information about the 'hood (assuming you can call Monument Avenue a 'hood).

I especially loved hearing her reminisces of playing croquet on the grass on the south side of Monument, while what he called "essentially a wagon trail" ran on the north side of the street. Needless to say, there was no median strip yet.

My friend arrived moments before curator Brian Grogan of the Historic American Buildings Survey began talking about the project's New Deal roots in 1937, intended to put out-of-work architects, draftsmen and photographers to work.

Just the thought of government caring about such things warms my heart.

Similarly, in 1968 the Historic American Engineering Record was started to document feats of engineering like the Memorial Bridge in D.C., which is the first image Brian showed, hardly surprising given the news I'd read just this morning in the Post.

That bridge is in such dire shape that unless it's completely overhauled (a traffic nightmare to even imagine), within five years. it'll be relegated to footbridge status only. Seeing Brogan's photo from the 1970s only served to reinforce what a gorgeous piece of engineering it was.

But here's the real surprise: that was originally a drawbridge. I'm a native Washingtonian who's used that bridge more than any other to get in and out of the city all my life and this was completely new information to me. Apparently the opening section was cantankerous from the start and eventually locked open, resulting in repeated repairs and sealing the draw span for good.

I am still agog at this piece of newly unearthed Washington history.

Once the lecture ended, we had less than 35 minutes to eat and make it to the theater for part two of the evening. The only thing we could figure that would fill the need for speed was to drive together and grab a Chinese snack along the way, so we stopped to slurp soup and gobble egg rolls and were out the door in 20 minutes.

We easily made the curtain at Firehouse Theater for Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's production of "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/ When the Rainbow is Enuf," a play I'd been aware of for decades yet never seen.

Sometimes the holes in my cultural literacy are big enough to drive construction equipment through.

That said, my friend and I were blown away by the 1976 story of seven nameless women trying to find their place in a racist, sexist world and using each other as sounding boards for what's going on in their lives through a series of poems, dances and music.

With no assistance from you, I have loved you strongly and passionately for 8 months, 2 weeks and a day.

In some ways, the play felt very much of the '70s in how it articulated women's issues, but many of those issues - domestic violence, abortion, rape by men you know - resonated just as strongly forty years later.

I couldn't stand by and be colored and sorry at the same time. It's so redundant in the modern world.

It was an incredibly strong cast, each woman nailing a different character's strengths and weaknesses, with music and dancing throughout (is any song quite as feel good as "Dancing in the Streets"?), creating a sisterhood that they could all lean on when needed.

My love is too complicated/delicate/beautiful/Saturday night/magic - to have thrown back in my face.

But the scene that had the audience doubled over in laughter was about all the apologies men have made to these women, each one standing to imitate her man and his lame excuses for letting her down again. No matter the excuse, it was relatable whether personally or tangentially through stories women share.

The funniest part was that the few men in the audience weren't laughing nearly as hard as the women were.

As strongly as that poem had moved us, another about Beau Willie Brown brought many in the the audience to tears, including actress Margarette Joyner who told the story so powerfully the audience forgot it was artifice and reacted viscerally to the heartbreaking story.

All I can say is, Heritage is a young theater company, but if this production is any indication, they'll be a force to be reckoned with in the theater community.

The tight ensemble piece we saw tonight was nothing short of transformative, like listening to jazz pros and never quite being sure where the next note will take you but knowing you want to - no, need to - hear it.

For me, it was equal parts complicated, delicate, beautiful and magic. Maybe even a little Saturday night.

Sort of like like love and sisterhood.