Praise the Walk, Man, Praise the Walk

'Tis a day for avoiding the green.

Setting out on my walk, I couldn't do my westward circuit because of Shamrock the Boulevard and I wasn't going anywhere near Shockoe Slip due to the Sine Irish Pub Festival. The low line and Chapel Island were definitely out because of the vomit-inducing Blarney Bash in the Bottom, which left me bound for the river.

Walking down Fifth Street just before noon took on shades of Bourbon Street when I spotted a middle-aged foursome walking along while sipping on wine from glasses hung from embarrassing neck strap wine holders. That was my reminder that this was the weekend of the Virginia Wine Expo at the Convention Center, but a better point might be, how the hell did they get out of the building with wine in their glasses?

With a little weaving going on and a whole lot of loud talking, it was obvious that since it was only 12:30, they must have been at the Expo the moment it opened. Passing them, I overheard that they were in search of food and slowed down to investigate.

When they told me they were on their way to Penny Lane Pub, I couldn't help but ask why.

"Where should we go?" they asked, as if there were just one answer to that. My question was what they were looking for: filling (probably a good idea given their blood alcohol levels already), healthy ("Do we look like we eat healthy?" the largest guy asked rhetorically), ethnic (no response), within walking distance (absolutely).

My suggestion was Greenleaf's a block away and I backed that up with reasons: the fun and funky vibe that includes an upscale pool hall, the creative and delicious food (that bar toast!), the brightly-colored Mexican artisan-painted portraits of famous pool and billiard players, shoot, I even mentioned how cool the black and white photographs of female pool players from the '50s and '60s hanging in the ladies' room were.

Let's just say they were profuse in their gratitude for steering them someplace they'd never have found on their own. Wishing them bon appetit and continuing down the hill to the river, the large guy called out his thanks again, adding, "Walk a mile or two for me, wouldja?"

A mile or two? Sir, you clearly have a magic mirror at home if you think that's all you need.

When I got near the bottom of the hill, I spotted the female members of a wedding party clustered around the bridge to Brown's Island, the bride wearing a short-sleeved fur jacket while the lavender dresses of her six bridesmaids were partly covered by white shawls.

All of them appeared to be shivering.

As I passed them, the one woman in street clothes looked up from her phone and announced, "They're leaving the limo now," like she was the secret service or something. Presumably, she was talking about the male portion of the bridal party, but the bride didn't look any too pleased at further waiting.

Not the most auspicious start for marital bliss.

Brown's Island wasn't particularly hopping today, although one guy made my day by stopping to ask if he could tell me something. "You're gorgeous," he said apropos of nothing and then moved on. Maybe he'd already been to the Wine Expo, too, though there was no tell-tale glass hanging round his neck so I couldn't be sure.

Near the lip of Brown's Island, not far from where the pipeline begins, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and realized that two green hammocks were now strung on top of each other between two trees. The occupants looked to be 14 or 15 year old boys and both were staring at their laps.

I couldn't resist.

Are you guys really laying in hammocks by the river in the sunshine looking at phones? Slowly, the top hammock brought his hands up, "I'm carving wood," he explained, holding up a knife and stick. I rained down praise on him, apologizing for my presumption.

From down below, the other boy peered around the side of his hammock. "Guilty as charged," he said sheepishly. "But I'm putting it away now."

My work here was finished.

On the pipeline, I followed behind a couple who, I would wager, were making their maiden foray on the curved and uneven surface, at least judging by their tentative and turtle-like pace. Coming up behind the man, he whispered to his wife and they paused awkwardly so I could pass.

As I was going around the terrified-looking woman trying to perch near the edge so I could pass, she smiled at me brightly and asked, "How are you doing today?" It seemed an odd moment to strike up a conversation but I stopped and answered.

By the time I got to the walkway, they were mere specks in the distance. Like I said, real slow movers.

After climbing the ladder off the pipeline, I heard the thundering bass and drums of a live band nearby the moment I stepped on land again, alerting me to the proximity of green beer and drunken revelers. Turning away from it, I headed across Mayo's Bridge.

Near the end, a man on a bike came toward me smiling and calling out, "Praise the lord, woman, praise the lord!" so I answered in kind and somehow lightening didn't strike me dead.

Instead, the insect world attacked. Just like earlier this week when Mac and I'd walked it, black gnats still swarmed along parts of the floodwall, a tad surprising given temperatures in the 30s today.

Walking toward me along the path under the Manchester bridge were parents with a young son on his training wheel bike and while the kid was clearly struggling with navigating on the gravel-strewn dirt, Mom was cutting him no slack.

"You have to learn to ride on rocks or regular," she told him firmly as he wobbled side to side on the pitted terrain. Feeling a little sorry for the budding cyclist, I reminded Mom that riding on gravel is hard and she gave me that "life is hard" look and kept walking.

Crossing the T Pot bridge, I was a little surprised to see 5 kayakers resting on some rocks near the bridge and another 4 or 5 making their way downriver toward them, while behind them were four tubing groups, easily the first of either activity I've seen on the water since before Christmas.

I'd have been less surprised had I seen them on one of the recent 70-degree days and not a chilly, windy one like today, but what do I know about such things?

It's enough just knowing which parts of the city are safe from the green-swilling mob today. As for the sweet-talking wine-swilling hordes, I can handle them any day.

A Bright, Guilty World

I'm just documenting my reality for posterity. Think Anne Frank's middle-aged diary.

I. Work
    A. Rode shotgun in a Subaru with a broken seatbelt alongside a peddler of intoxicants as he earned a living.
      1. Repeated tastings of Bold Rock citrus cider
      2. Too much lunch at Joe's Inn
      3. Lots of music talk, mainly around new versus old
      4. Pegged for a non-beer drinker by a complete stranger

II. Movement
    A. After a day in cars and bars, a 68-degree afternoon beckoned and I followed the sun to the river
    B. Coming back from the T Pot, met two guys with a drone, excitedly setting out to take their first river photos.
      1. In the churning river, they saw a muddy mess. I saw a roiling root beer float
      2. So much more debris, even than yesterday, being tossed around in the water

III. Culture
    A. Cinema for Cinephiles screening of Orson Welles' "The Lady from Shanghai" at the Byrd
      1. First time seeing it since actually being in San Francisco
      2. Unlike studio heads, loved Rita Hayworth's hair cut short and dyed platinum. So. Euro-looking
    B. Welles' well-written humor throughout
      1. "Personally, I don't like a girlfriend to have a husband."
      2. Her: "Now he knows about us." Him: "I wish I did."
      3. "The only way to stay out of trouble is to grow old, so I guess I'll concentrate on that."

IV. Sustenance
    A. Became the final two customers at 821 Cafe on $3 margarita night for post-film discussion
      1. Black bean nachos, espresso chocolate cake
      2. Conclusion: Welles wasn't fond of women and racial stereotyping is SOP
      3. Music the typical 821 thrash, but skewing slightly sludge metal
    B. Made another convert to my favorite black bean nachos
    C. Musical conclusion: Babs beat Madge to the reinvention/control freak punch

V. Processing the new normal aka reading the daily news
    A. Rogue accounts created by concerned employees to prevent dissemination of alternative facts by this madman-in-chief
       1. National Park Service
       2. NASA
    B. The Powers That Lie sign an executive order aimed at reviving the Dakota pipeline

The only way to stay sane is to tell the truth about what's happening, so I guess I'll concentrate on that.

Easier Than Saying What You Mean

After a thorough reading of today's Washington Post, I needed "Amarcord." Badly.

Why? Because today's entry in the Bijou's anti-fascist film fest, Fellini's 1973 look back at his childhood (the title translates as "I remember") in fascist Italy, promised reassurance that life goes on, even when delusional leaders seize control and, frankly, who couldn't use that reminder along about now?

It wasn't a big crowd - I heard something about a football game - but everyone there seemed to need what the film was offering and although I'd seen it in 2013 not long after visiting Italy, it necessarily resonated differently this time.

Of course, some details of Italian life - "Fernet or coffee?" - don't change.

Discussing "Amarcord" with a film aficionado afterward in the lobby, we agreed on the theme of daily life's durability despite a dictatorship, but, as he pointed out, that worked far better in the un-populated countryside of the 1930s than it might in a metropolitan area circa 2017.

My only other accomplishments were a foggy walk over the T Pot bridge and beyond, nailing a last-minute deadline and an intermittent but day-long listening party of The XX's new "I See You," the better to discuss it with the two fans who've sought my opinion on it this week.

It took exactly one listen to their debut album in 2009 to make me a fan and proselytizer for the band's hushed, minimalist sound. I recall playing it continuously for a fellow music-lover as we drove up Route 301 under a leaden sky. He was completely smitten with the band by the time we arrived. Success.

Naturally, 2012's "Coexist" engendered countless conversations with music fans about the direction their sound had taken, with an Italian cohort saying that it was so stripped down that for their next album, the band would simply dream the songs and fans would hear them.

Humor is a matter of opinion, but my attraction to The XX was as much about the murmuring sound as the lyrics of longing and introspection. Lyrics for fans of lyrics, so right up my alley.

Fiction, when we're not together
Mistaken for a vision, something of my own creation
Any certainties, how am I to tell?
I know your face all too well, yet I wake up alone

Happily, introspective lyrics are still there, only now they're part of a richer, more expansive sound palette that's clearly informed by synths and dance music (even briefly sampling Hall and Oates).

Hot damn, I would play this album at my next party in a heartbeat.

As it is, I'm already in love with it and it's only been a day since I brought it home from my neighborhood record store. Don't come to my apartment any time soon or you're going to hear it.

I've been a romantic for so long
All I've ever heard are love songs singing
Oh, oh, oh, go on, I dare you
Oh, oh, oh, I dare you

I get chills, heart rate multiplies
I'm on a different kind of high
A rush of blood is not enough
I need my feelings set on fire

The truth is, a rush of blood was never enough for me. As long ago as college, my friend Leo dubbed me "hopelessly romantic" and that's a man who knew me well. Still does.

The XX don't, yet they've given me a new soundtrack for 2017 going forward.

Chemistry is rare
in a two, three time affair
There's no guarantees 

So I've learned since Leo labeled me way back when. Better, I think, to work on something of my own creation.

Whatcha See is Whatcha Get

It is a stellar January day when I can wear shorts the whole day long. You'd be amazed at what a conversation-starter they can be.

With temperatures already lounging in the upper '60s by the time I left for my walk, it was a foregone conclusion that I'd head to the river, where I spotted a stand-up paddleboarder from the top of the Second Street hill and enormous flocks of what looked like sea birds roosting in the river as I crossed the T Pot bridge.

I wasn't the only one happily wearing shorts to give my legs an airing - although I only saw three others among the sunny day throngs - but lots of sandals were proof positive that plenty of people were celebrating a 70 degree high only four days after suffering through a 19 degree high (which, incidentally felt like 8 with the wind chill factor).

Yesterday's high of 50 had been more than enough to lure me outside on any pretext, which is how a supposed quick errand to the drug store two blocks away somehow resulted in spontaneously dropping by my neighborhood record store.

Despite my wafer-thin wallet, I can justify a mid-afternoon visit to Steady Sounds because I don't mind being at the mercy of the $1 bins.

When I finally got a turntable a couple of months ago, my record collection (which hadn't been played in decades) numbered around 100, which probably represents about half of what I'd owned before friends borrowed and didn't return and mates absconded with choice albums when we parted ways.

But it didn't matter because I hadn't heard any of them in so long and I owned very few of them on CD. So I set out to listen to the records of my youth, a fascinating process that showed me how much of my current musical taste was shaped back then.

What I mean is, I can hear now that Grin led me directly to Ryan Adams. Thanks, Nils.

I lasted exactly ten days (and listened to about 80% of my collection) before I just couldn't stand it anymore and hit two record stores in one day, netting probably close to 20 albums, almost all of which cost a whopping $1 a piece.

And here's the beauty of shopping the cheapo bins: it affords me the chance to revisit long-stolen faves as well as indulge in guilty pleasures I'd never have allowed myself to buy back then. Recent additions such as Spandau Ballet, the Thompson Twins and Taylor Dane would've all been off limits to a certain kind of music snob (my best friend recently reminded me I used to chide her for listening to pop music) in the '80s.

A locked door on a candy store
That's what you are

So now the world knows, I even picked up a Paul Carrack album. I feel like only Holmes will give me credit for that.

Another pleasure of the $1 bins is the chance they offer to go deeper on music I only know about superficially. I now own Roberta Flack, the Chi-Lites and the Dazz Band, for whatever that's worth. And the Dramatics' album, hell, I've already played that 3 or 4 times in the 30 hours I've owned it.

Some people are made of plastic
And, you know, some people are made of wood
Some people have hearts of stone
Some people are up to no good
But, baby, I'm for real
I'm as real as real can get

Back from interviewing two artists at a church (after going to the wrong church initially because apparently all churches are the same to me), I found an email from my 84-year old Dad with the subject line "Music." What's this?

"Are you familiar with a song "Black Coffee in Bed" by Squeeze?"

I'm a tad surprised at this inquiry, but assure him I do know Squeeze (although I only own them on CD, not album) and inquire if he likes them.

"Indeed! I have to get the CD that has 'Black Coffee in Bed' on it!"

This new-found enthusiasm for Squeeze cracks me up, so I send him the link to buy the CD still pondering why a New Wave band's song spoke to my father. Could it be he can relate to black coffee in bed? I probably don't need to know.

Now she's gone
And I'm out with a friend
With lips full of passion 
And coffee in bed

I only hope I'm still discovering music when I'm 84. And no matter my age, I know I'll still be wearing shorts every warm day that comes along, even in January.

Cause that's as real as real can get. And the real thing, I've been told, is the best thing yet.

All About the View Ahead

They should just make me walking ambassador for the city because I know how to dazzle.

It's one thing to take a date's conversational temperature when you're sitting at a restaurant or waiting for a movie to start, and quite another when they're hoofing it next to or behind you for five or six miles.

And, honey, never more so than on the first excursion out.

I don't gravitate to the huffing and puffing type. More than once, I've been told that their primary concern is whether they'll be able to keep up - which shouldn't be a concern if you're half a foot taller than me - and I hate to break it to them, but it's my main concern, too.

My companion on this morning's cold and gray walk was a long-time daily runner and regular exerciser, so I felt comfortable taking him through his paces to see what he could do (besides compliment my posture, which is always a fine start).

Naturally we had to begin in Jackson Ward (where he admitted he knew little about my neighborhood), wind our way down to the river and give him his first T Pot Bridge experience.

"I've got a salacious story, but I'm not sure if I should tell you," he says as we approach the new bridge. Come on, I adore salacious. He had me laughing almost immediately, showing me the spot on the bridge where he and a girlfriend once took liberties with each other in full view of some fishermen.

We agree, at least, that such activities are the provenance of the under-40 set.

I'm pleased that he's as taken with the high volume of the water rushing over the dam remnants under us as I am every time I walk it. To not appreciate the sheer noise of the experience is to miss much.

After climbing to the overlook where he rhapsodizes about a view he's never seen, we re-cross the bridge and I lead him down under the Manchester Bridge.

"Where are you taking me?" he wonders aloud, dropping behind me to navigate the rocky trail. Trust me, I assure him.

Although we have to hop rocks to get on because the river is high, we barely make it ten feet before he tells me he has no idea where he is. When I tell him we're walking on a pipeline approaching the pipeline walkway, he's amazed.

"How have I never been down here? How did I not know this existed?" he asks from behind.

I point out that he's having a singular experience on the pipeline because the water is so high it's almost even with the pipeline, a river rarity that makes walking on a rounded, uneven surface feel like an even greater adventure.

It's also a return to major volume as we pass a couple of Class IV rapids that look like they could spit out a kayaker without notice, the water rushing so furiously that even the birds have stationed themselves on high rocks out of harm's way.

Climbing up the ladder off the pipeline, we pass a couple of guys who ask if we were the ones they'd just seen from the overlook walking the pipeline. They want to do what we did. My date, the newly-minted expert, points out the steps to take them there.

A good sign - I've already converted him to the pleasures of the pipeline.

We walk back along the Canal Walk, across a mostly empty Brown's Island (where he tells me about the view from the top floor of the Federal Reserve where he once attended a party) and climb the hill behind Ethyl to the muddy, straw-covered Gary Gerloff Trail still in recovery mode after the soggy Folk Fest in October. This, too, is a new path for him.

It's somewhere on the hill coming up Second Street that he makes a joke about his aching legs. I raise an eyebrow. Are you looking to be disqualified? He's joking, he claims.

True or not, the key thing - his legs will recover, after all - is that he's held up his end of the conversational walk every step of the way. We've covered nuggets of personal history, Richmond anecdotes, uncovered shared friends and agreed what a true gentleman one of my exes - whom he knew well - was. For the record, he wants to be colored interested and intrigued.

Best of all, the only time he lagged behind was to enjoy the view. Some walkers are made, not born.

Singing to the World

It's the little things that make you appreciate being back from vacation.

It's walking the T Pot Bridge for the first time in almost two weeks in a light mist, catching up on how we spent our holidays and realizing that there is only one other human on the bridge (also one canine, despite signs forbidding four-footed companions because of possible injury) besides Mac and me.

All the other times I've walked the bridge, there have been scads of people, but between today's return-to-work status and the precipitation, it's just us three and the dog, a singular pleasure.

Don't take this the wrong way, but...

It's having lunch with Foto Boy in the service of my hired mouth and cracking each other up with our Baby Boomer complaints about the cost of an antiquated parking meter downtown. When he grouses about a dime only buying three minutes, I expect him to raise his fist and start hollering at passers-by.

Not on my grass, sonny.

While hearing how his still somewhat new relationship is progressing since we last met, we eat, trade plates and marvel that our friendship turns 8 this year. It's this longevity that allows us not only to call the other out for bad choices, but to begin sentences with the likes of, "Well, if I were you..."

And, honestly, this is a fine outcome for a relationship that began as a dating proposition but quickly morphed into a solid friendship back in 2009. Both of us want to see the other appreciated.

Ah, so he's going for the long game, is he?

It's hearing from a friend who inquires, "What time tomorrow? Your place for quiet drinks, chats and music? Should I bring something, a bit of a nosh and a bottle? You supply the water and the stories. I hope you have some pictures to supplement the conversation, too."

Lots of questions and no cameras, please, but there's a lot to be said for a guest who not only shows up ready to talk, but also supplies the party.

Your mind is so sharp. Like aged cheddar cheese.

It's going to meet a friend at Crossroads Coffee because DJ Rattan is spinning vinyl and, again, it's been a couple of weeks since we last laid eyes on each other.

Surely there are conversations to be had when an extrovert and an introvert, neither of whom drinks coffee, find a cozy table to listen to what this longtime member of Bio Ritmo is spinning, creating a vibe not unlike the coolest rec rooms of the mid-century modern era.

Reaching back to the 60s, he reels me in early with a lesser-known song by the Association, "No Fair at All" and from then on, manages to cherry pick from the '70s and '80s while interspersing them with unknown yet danceable Latin numbers as if he were DJing at a dance.

One with plenty of slow jam tangents.

That he was sipping beer and dancing in place only made it obvious he was having as good a time as we were. Who wouldn't enjoy a savory roasted butternut squash soup slurped to hand-picked tunage?

Heatwave's "Always and Forever" slowed things down after an obscure but slinky Bowie song that was then followed by Boz Scaggs, classic Anita Baker and a winsome version of "Gentle on My Mind." When Steely Dan came on, we each had our definitive Steely Dan stories culled from years of not being fans despite radio overexposure.

He did, however, look at me like I had two heads when I shared how charismatic I'd found Donald Fagen in concert. "He's not attractive, right?" my date inquires quite seriously. Let's talk about that, shall we?

Most unlikely song played, hands down was an A.M. radio staple, Barry Manilow's "Daybreak," which I somehow managed to recognize in a ridiculously few notes. I'm not proud of that, but there it is.

I didn't see you sprinting to tell me happy new year, either.

For a while, we did the companionable read thing as we listened, each taking in the new issue of Style Weekly, pausing only to discuss the more interesting articles or share a newly discovered tidbit.

Looking at the critic's list of ten best films, he admits to having seen exactly none of them while I'd seen two.

"Which ones? No, let me guess," he insists, eventually naming five without managing to hit on either I'd actually seen, probably a consequence of not having been friends for 8 years. The masterful "Moonlight," I tell him. And the other?

Why, "Love and Friendship," of course. Because it's the little things that become big things and, really, what else is there?

That makes you very real. Very refreshing.

Free the Luddites

From today's highlight reel:

A walk through the Capitol grounds down to the street art gallery of the old power plant, along the canal walk to Brown's Island, a U-turn to walk the pipeline west to east, followed by east to west (the rapids incredibly high and strong after all the recent rain) and finally over to the T Pot bridge.

Not necessarily because I needed to walk the T Pot for the fifth time in eight days, though I certainly had every intention of doing so, but because I had a date with a drone. Well, me and dozens of others who showed up at the specified time to line the railing, smile and wave like beauty queens as the drone hovered in front of us for what felt like forever given the cloudy sky and cold breezes whipping over the water.

Our group portrait benefited from the enormous flock of birds who took to the sky behind us moments before the red-eyed drone showed up to capture man's aluminum accomplishment set against nature's sepia-toned background.

There was even a dash of the political when a couple of rafters appeared, anchored and unfurled a spray-painted "Free the James" sign directly in front of us. The scuttlebutt was that it involved dams and fish spawning, but it certainly added an au courant air to the group photo.

I'm hoping my distinctive hat will make me easier to pick out once they send us all the photo, which someone claimed was destined for the Times Dispatch archives, but we all know is really destined for Facebook, at least for 95% of the participants.

Don't look at me.

Although it involved no technology, another walk this afternoon was pretty wonderful, too, mainly because of the little beagle I have been given access and leash privileges to. We've been making eyes at each other for months and now we're consummating our relationship in public.

My attentions mean that his artistic mistress doesn't have to hurry home from the studio at inconvenient intervals and I've got a velvet-eared companion every time I feel like stretching my legs in the 'hood.

When we got back this afternoon, I gave him a treat, said adieu and, I swear, he gave me a look that said he knew I'd be back for more.

Damn beagle, of course he's right.

In what surely must be one of the most glacially slow-moving friendships on record, a computer geek professorial type I met 15 or 16 years ago - who'd contacted me last summer about having an actual conversation to solidify our Facebook friend status - finally made that happen by taking up residence across the table from me at My Noodle & Bar.

The way I see it, if I'm friends with you on Facebook, we should be able to carry on a conversation in the real world, especially given the hefty number of people we have in common. Turns out that it was that photo I posted of myself in front of a vintage VW bus that spoke to him, mainly because he still has his and uses it for an annual trek to the Everglades to hang out with old friends.

Volkswagen: helping hippie types make friends since the '60s. Who'd have thought a Luddite and a techie could find common ground at a subterranean pan-Asian joint, even with a Cool Hand Luke mocktail?

The highlight, though, was most definitely when he looked me square in the eye with disbelief and inquired, "Are you a Luddite?"

Sure am. I guarantee you I was the sole person on the T Pot bridge without a cell phone today.

I like to think that, despite being captured by a drone, my soul remains intact. Now, whether I show up in the photo or not remains to be seen.