Porno for Political Philosophers

Schneider's dead. And that's not even the most interesting obituary I read in the paper today.

That honor would go to writer Florene King, whom I'd never heard of when I awoke, but whose work I'm now determined to explore because of this sentence from her Washington Post obituary: Miss King, who once wrote pornographic novels for fast money, was a punctilious prose stylist who became an essayist and pretense-flaying satirist along the lines of a latter-day H.L. Mencken or Dorothy Parker.

Sign me up. One quick question, though. I could be making fast money writing pornographic novels? Why am I just learning this information now?

Of lesser import but kind of fascinating was actor Pat Harrington's obit, not because I watched a lot of "One Day at a Time" (I didn't), but because I learned that the man who played the clueless chauvinistic building superintendent had a master's degree in political philosophy in real life.

Damn, that's a hella good actor.

Closer to home, I started at Reynolds Gallery where Richmond's art elite regularly gather at openings and tonight was no exception. Richard Roth's "Speed Bump," Leigh Suggs' "Double Vision" and Tara Donovan's "Slinkys" attracted an "A" list of local talent, mainly women and I happily chatted with all the ones I knew.

Suggs' intricate hand-cut pieces were a marvel to inspect at close range, at least when I could get the social set to move from in front of them so I could actually see the art. I know, I know, see and be seen.

It was a completely different scene at ADA Gallery for Tom Condon's "Haptic Fugitive" (and, yes, I learned a new word tonight- def: based on the sense of touch), a series of direct positives that resembled nothing so much as the images of a black and white kaleidoscope.

What was cool was hearing eager-beaver VCU students cornering him to pepper him with questions. How did you do these? It looks like you manipulated this part, did you? Was that done in the darkroom? When I left, he was explaining that he'd decided not to include his recent large-format digital photographs in this show because they had such a different feel than these.

From there, it was a short walk under my umbrella to Richmond Comedy Coalition for the premiere of "High There," a new weekly improvised sitcom. "You can't binge-watch this one! This is appointment-only comedy!" host Ryan warned us.

As if I binge-watch anything.

Set in a head shop Jonathan inherits from his uncle, each week's episode begins by opening the envelope with the week's premise. Tonight's was - drum roll, please - the pilot episode. Time to establish characters and scene, in other words.

After an appropriately corny theme song, we watched and laughed as Jonathan and his girlfriend Eve (who intends to be president once she's 40 and can't decide if the weed connection in her past will be a pro or a con for her run) acquaint themselves with their new property.

They're not exactly experts on weed or paraphernalia.

To help them out, they have two staffers, one of whom, Townsend, has been quietly embezzling $25,000 since Uncle's death and the other, Grace, a dizzy type, who, when told that no matter how big a number is, you can't divide it by zero, says enthusiastically with a big smile, "That doesn't mean anything to me, but I'm gonna Google it!"

Talking to Eve about her political aspirations, she wonders, "Are you, like, a liberal or a little bit cuckoo?" Because those are the choices in politics.

Laughs came courtesy of young Jonathan's travails, but also the vintage TV commercials between acts that about brought the house down. A vintage Doritos ad, one for a cheesy '70s bar called Al E. Gator's, complete with ferns and disco dancing, a pineapple burger at McDonald's "for a limited time only" (thank you, Ray Kroc) and a Pepsi commercial that focused on why Coke had changed its formula, all had the crowd in stitches with disbelief.

That's just how corny TV was in the olden days, I'm afraid. Toni Tennille haircuts were everywhere.

Naturally, weed humor abounded, such as when Jonathan mistakes a vaporizer for a "pen with a light" and employee Grace brings him up to speed, informing him it's called an "El Discreeto."

Also helping him learn the ropes is new-agey Waylon who runs a bookstore upstairs and knew Uncle. When the $25,000 shortage is discovered, Waylon says, "I'd offer to lend you the money but I run a Mom and Pop bookstore," which got a big, knowing laugh.

Luckily, Waylon has a philosophy for Jonathan's first day of business blues and it's this: Things work out, you break even and then everybody dies.

Fortunately, not anytime soon. There's seven more weeks of laughs at High There and the best part is you have to be there to find out what happens. It's the showing up that appeals to me most.

Just this morning, a friend messaged me to say he couldn't make our planned movie date next week. He excitedly tells me his consolation was finding a European streaming site that allowed him to watch the new Tarantino film last night.

Nice, but no help for me, I write him back.

You have computer and Internet, it's just not as social, he assures me. I remind him that I don't watch movies anywhere but in public places with others, the way god and MGM intended.

He points out that I sleep late and am sometimes late for appointments now, changes from ten years ago, so there may be hope for me yet. I dismiss this entirely.

I see a cell phone in your future, he audaciously writes (which is doubly funny since just two days ago I got an email from another friend wishing me a happy new year and asking, "Will you buy a cell phone in 2016? I don't think so but doesn't hurt to ask."). As if.

Then he asks what movie I'll go see without him. "Maybe I'll see if I can find that one online. Then we can discuss."

Not entirely certain, but I think he's suggesting an appointment-only movie discussion. I hope my sigh of disgust doesn't transmit through the Interwebs.

Am I an alarmist to think that this is how the world will eventually separate itself, into those willing to show up for life and those just as happy to experience it alone and on a screen?

Excuse me, I may feel the need to pen an essay or perhaps a pretense-flaying satire on the subject, but first I've got a punctilious pornographic novel to write. Pen name: El Discreeto.

Fast money, baby, to be spent out and about in the real world.

Answer Me, Rescue Me

A day that runs the gamut from art to balcony is a memorable one. Romantic, even.

When I woke up this morning, I found an e-mail from a painter friend reminding me that he owed me a painting and had one ready for me.

Modestly, he referred to it as a good "summary."

Even better, he let me know as soon as he got home from work and I walked the block and a half to his house to procure my newest acquisition, "South Beach."

He described it as "South Beach, Miami. Caught in the rain, 4am walks on the beach, not a care in the world. Mojitos. Grace. 1606. sushi samba. Lincoln Rd. Art. A great time. Airline hostesses giving free wine. a surreal list of events. Timeless.....that painting has a lot if meaning to me."

I teetered home with this large format (3' x 4') "painted diary" of a fondly recalled part of his life and hung it on one of my 1876 walls, where it looks magnificent and joins an apartment full of other friends' artwork.

The energy it adds to the room is palpable.

When I left to meet a friend to go out tonight, it was only after one last, long glance at "South Beach" before I departed.

I am so fortunate to have such talented friends.

The one picking me up in front of my house is a terribly talented conversationalist, who never fails to stimulate my intellect while making me laugh hysterically.

From a very local artist to six more of the same I went.

We drove directly to the VMFA to hear a panel discussion with six local artists, "Virginia Artists Live."

All six artists have work hanging in the VMFA (much of which I'd blogged about after a recent trip through the 21st Century gallery) and worked in various disciplines: photography, sculpture, painting, ceramics, drawing and printmaking.

Modern and Contemporary Art curator John Ravenal got things rolling humorously, saying, "We're calling this program "Virginia Artists Live" because here they are."

After each introduced himself and spoke a little about their work, Ravenal asked what was good about working in Richmond.

Former New Yorker and painter Richard Roth said, "I was interested to find such an intellectual community in a place like Richmond."

Relative newcomer Ben Durham said, "It's a great satellite of D.C. and NYC, providing great opportunities you can't find in New York. Here, you have spare time because money goes further here for people to put time into studio practice."

Ceramicist Michelle Erickson explained that living in Virginia had been integral to her learning about centuries-old ceramic processes that had informed her work.

Behind me, I heard an old guy gently snoring.

Trying a different tack, Ravenal asked photographer Gordon Stettinius about how RVA was difficult for an artist.

"I'm gonna go all Jiminy Cricket on you," Gordon laughed. "I have a gallery and I love how the community has congealed around the gallery There are lots of people to bump up against and learn from."

Grinning and emboldened, he went on to suggest that the museum needed to hold a biennial like some other museums do. "It would be a way for artists to have their work seen and probably swatted down."

Speaking in his delightfully South African-accented voice, collector and printmaker Siemon Allen took it down to basics. "In D.C. I could go to a news agent and they'd have the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Chicago papers. When I came to Richmond, I couldn't find those newspapers here."

Sculptor Elizabeth King was more blunt. "What an odd political city this is. It's odd how many people I don't talk to. It's strange and surreal."

Nervous titters all around as she referenced hot-button topics and certain audience members got uncomfortable.

Asked about advice for young people, Roth told them to have high ambitions and low overhead.

That's always been my motto.

Durham freely admitted, "I have no idea how I could function in New York. My studio on southside is a very happy place."

I understand his sentiment; my apartment/office in Jackson Ward is also a very happy place (with, did I mention, a fabulous new painting?).

Stettinius said, "I don't tell people they have to leave to succeed but I do advocate for people to come here because it's a very fertile scene."

There was a short period for audience questions, but they mostly were of the love-fest variety, one praising Stettinius' photography series of himself dressed as various characters, another noting King's resemblance to the museum's bust of her mother.

Ravenal is notorious for keeping his talks to an hour or so ("I like to leave you wanting more") so he quickly wrapped things up and turned us out into the still-lit night.

My fellow art lover and I made a bee-line for Dinamo where a server kindly made space for us at the end of the bar near a man and his Dad trying to finish a hefty and rich looking lasagna.

In a place as Italian as Dinamo, there was nowhere to go but with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano, so we unashamedly did.

Meanwhile, the men next to us threw up the white flag on the pasta and ordered espressos and the chocolate espresso torte all the way, as in with berries and whipped cream.

We looked on enviously, but knew enough to eat in the order an Italian mother would approve of.

That meant starting with the tortellini in brodo, which we'd had on our last visit and couldn't bear not to have again.

It's not just the pasta, it's not just the filling, it's not just the flavorful broth, it's the whole package.

Over a discussion of mixed signals and delayed gratification, we tore into a white pizza with artichoke hearts, so good and so generously portioned.

"Garlic!" my friend enthused, but then nobody was going to be kissing us tonight, so why not?

When the lasagna bolognese arrived, it was the size of a baby's head and so hot the sauce was still bubbling.

"You got the last one," our sever said with satisfaction.

We let it cool just long enough not to burn our tongues and then pulled big, gooey bites off of the platter to cool momentarily.

Mmm, meat and cheese, just what hungry women want after an evening of intellectual stimulation.

Despite working down all of the wine, we both ended up with Chinese take-out boxes of pizza and lasagna, not a bad thing come lunch time tomorrow.

Friend looked at me when our server inquired about dessert.

Although the last time we'd been in we'd gotten the torte naked, the two gents who'd been enjoying theirs earlier had insisted that "all the way" was the only acceptable option for this dessert.

Our arms easily twisted once our server concurred, we were soon facing a mountain of chocolate and cream while Friend also sipped an espresso.

"Wasn't that a great meal?" she asked rhetorically as I slid into a food coma.

I would say so, even if I feel like I'm about to explode as we make our way out to a deserted Cary Street.

When she drops me off, I am surprised to see how early it still is, so I decide to enjoy the summer solstice eve outside on the balcony.

I light a few candles, put on Bryan Ferry's "Taxi" and relax back into a deep and comfy chair to digest.

The air deliciously cool, the candlelight soft and low and Ferry's crooning exquisite, it is everything a summer night should be.

Starting with "I Put a Spell on You," meandering through "Answer Me" and ending with "Because You're Mine," it's an album for romantics.

And after this day, this amazing new painting I was gifted with, this stimulating talk by local artists who all clearly see the wonder of this city much the way I do, this fabulous meal eaten in the shadow of an enormous, shiny espresso machine with a good friend, and this music-filled hour under a not quite full moon, I am feeling all kinds of romantic.

Surely I must be under a spell.