If I Could Reach the Stars

I may officially be old. Today I joined the ranks of people who yell at policemen.

Walking on Leigh Street the past week and a half involves weaving in and out of scads of burgundy and gold-clad visitors hell bent on getting to Redskins Park, which is fine. I can cut around them and not break stride.

Except today a cop positioned on the southwest corner was not happy when I stepped off the corner before spotting traffic and retreating to the sidewalk. Instructions to stay were shouted at me.

But it was when I crossed without the light as far as the median strip that he started fuming, despite my clear sight line with not a single vehicle in the lane as far as Broad Street.

"Ma'am, I told you to stay on the corner!" he roared. Sir, I walk six miles every day, so I know when it's safe to cross the street, I yelled back.

"I could have you arrested for jay-walking! Wait for the crossing signal!" I did, but we had no further eye contact so I can't say how he reacted to my civil obedience. A look of superiority, perhaps?

As it turned out, today I also joined the ranks of people who know who Kristen Stewart is.

I managed to get all the way through Woody Allen's new film, "Cafe Society," with no clue who the actress playing the lead was. Not that it mattered, because I'd have had no greater appreciation for her minimal acting chops and vacant stare had I known she was part of the "Twilight" dysfunction.

In other disappointments, given the setting - Hollywood and New York City in the '30s - a person could be forgiven for expecting a reasonable facsimile of those two places to resemble old movies of that era, but a person would be sorely mistaken.

Yes, yes, I get it that Allen wanted every California scene bathed in a warm, glowing light to symbolize Hollywood's golden era, but, Woody, can we talk about those costumes? Those hairstyles? The wardrobe color palette? That make-up?

No woman in the '30s had Stewart's smoky eye make-up and au naturel lip color, much less that loose, unstructured hair style. Everywhere you looked, scene to scene, were women wearing the colors of the '70s (avocado green, burnt orange, harvest gold), hairstyles of the aughts and fabrics that did not exist for Depression-era women.

Hell, rayon wasn't even a thing until the '40s, Woody.

For anyone who's a student of fashion history, it was almost constantly jarring to see how few costumes actually recalled the '30s. Just as bad, the formidable undergarments that women of that time would have worn under everything were noticeably absent.

I can appreciate that as a filmmaker, the man always strives to come in on time and under budget, but don't do a period piece and have actresses wearing Brigitte Bardot up-sweeps and loose waves of hair like a Yardley model circa 1967.

On the other hand, the movie began with a jazz piece featuring clarinet and black and white titles, so from the first moments of the film, you entered Woody's world, a place I have willingly visited since the '70s. Many of the same old tropes remain steadfast - Jewish stereotypes, lots of talking about romance and relationships, a sense of place - while others get more grating with each new film.

Must he continue to cast pretty young things when they can't act or emote to save their lives?

Compensation for a so-so Woody Allen film came in the form of buttered popcorn and Milk Duds for dinner, and as Pru said about our choice to forgo the four main food groups for the snack group, "Is that bad?"

Daily, yes, occasionally, no.

Leaving the Criterion, she serenaded me with a surprisingly good imitation of Cher doing "If I Could Turn Back Time" and flipping her hair appropriately, something I couldn't have done in a million years.

Apparently it's only the missing six inches of height that keeps Pru from going into the Cher impersonator business and making a quick killing. When I suggest sawed-off stilts under an evening gown, she marvels, "Then my hair could be as long as me."

So tonight I was the Sonny to her Cher and we took the act to Quirk's rooftop bar, her first visit, conspiring with the elevator strategist who insisted on carding us before allowing us upstairs. Next time, he suggested sotto voice, come at the same time but on a night when the Diamond has fireworks.

"We've got a fantastic view!" he assured us.

This I already knew from my last visit - after all, who wouldn't want to admire Jackson Ward from above? - but it was Pru's first and it left her decidedly underwhelmed.

"I think it's cute that you like it so much," she teased after I pointed out the minarets of the Altria, the Belgian Friendship building from the World's Fair, the way it looked like Broad Street went right under the WTVR tower flashing barely two miles away.

Even though it was a repeat visit for me, I felt no more charmed by the scene than my first time, despite glasses of the lovely Raffault Chinon Rose.

Besides the unbearable heat around the bar, the crowd comes across as completely vapid and inane. A lot of straightened hair, a lot of gigantic purses. I overheard discussions of breathalyzers on two different levels of the lofty space.

We adjusted by taking a table facing West on the penthouse level to drink our Rose and dissect what will no doubt go down as a minor, late work of the master. An aging master.

I bet he's been yelling at policemen for years.

Crab and Camp Jingle

It was the borrowed boyfriend redux.

I made it home from a foggy day at the river with just enough time to shower off the dust and debris from another 17 trips up and down two flights of stairs to complete the tree decoration and final adorning of my parents' house.

With tight hamstrings and taut calves, I changed clothes and personas to meet a charming man who is not my own.

No, he belongs to a workaholic friend who is not the fan of theater I am, so we'd made plans for dinner and a play.

He wanted to meet at Max's on Broad, fine by me since it's mere blocks from home and I had very limited time to get properly outfitted for a night at Richmond Triangle Players.

Since neither of us had been up there, we chose the upstairs dining room to eat and were fittingly greeted by a local actor I know.

If anyone understands how to get people in and out in time to make a curtain, it was this guy.

With the balmy-like temperatures outside, I started by ordering a glass of Jean-Mauraice Raffault Chinon Rose, getting major props from the actor who said it was one of his faves, and that he'd taken a bottle of it home just last night.

All around us were other people who looked theater-bound, although the boyfriend and I agreed that in all likelihood, they were on their way to see "Fiddler on the Roof" around the corner at Virginia Rep.

As he noted, we were on the young end of the demographic and that's saying something.

We both started with the Crab Louis cocktail, a surprisingly large mound of lump crabmeat and three cocktail shrimp.

Blame my Maryland childhood, but I still get a little thrill when I see a big pile of picked crab I can just inhale without any effort on my part.

Next I had a half hanger steak salad which my date labeled as "eating healthy" but given the abundance of medium rare red meat and bleu cheese on it, I'm sure there was at least some artery-clogging going on.

The boyfriend told me about his recent trips to Ireland and Nashville and wanted to hear about my recent weekend in Washington, leading to a discussion of career servers and how the Richmond restaurant scene could use the kind of people who make service their profession and not something they do in between other jobs or pursuits.

People can dream, can't they?

Before we knew it, it was time to get to Richmond Triangle Players in Scott's Addition for "It's a Fabulous Life."

Who else would produce a play based on "It's a Wonderful Life," where the protagonist's crisis necessitates him seeing what his life would have been like if he'd been born straight?

Perish the thought, of course.

Our hero, a gay playwright, is frustrated with his latest play, a gay Christmas musical where he's stepped into the role of Randolph, the gay reindeer.

He wants to write something universal instead of all the gay-themed plays he's become known for. To that end, he's already cut "I Came Upon a Midnight Queer" from the play.

There was an explanation of the difference in a vicious queer and an evil queer (it's all in how they tell you how you look).

The crowd loved the big, musical number, "The Pole Got Hot," which ended with all the dancers in g-strings of Santa hats.

By the end of the first act, our hero Joe has done it, he's wished that he were never born gay and that's when his angel shows up.

But unlike in "Wonderful Life" where the angel comes down to help a man so he can finally get his wings, this gay angel already has his.

So why's he down helping a lost soul?

Well, the standard-issue wings are white and he doesn't want to wear white after Labor Day so he's hoping to earn some lavender wings.

"Helluva Time in Heaven!" gave us angels in gold lame briefs that allowed plenty of, um, detail and movement.

The boyfriend and I had seats in different rows, but just behind each other and during the intermission, a man came over and asked if he could sit in the empty chair next to me.

Looking at the guy on my right, he checked first, asking, "Does she bite?"

"Yes, but in a really good way," my seatmate claimed as if he knew.

"Ooooh, your tights are fab!" the newcomer said, complimenting the perennially-popular Berlin tights.

He started right in asking me if I came to RTP often, what brought me in and if I knew any of the actors in the show, so I wanted to know something about him.

A Texan here visiting, he'll be directing an upcoming show at RTP and wanted to get a feel for the stage and sight lines.

I immediately explained that as a short person, I'd missed some great dance moves by Joe and the angel because of where they were on the stage and he said he'd take that into consideration.

Always doing my part for the vertically-challenged.

The second act started with Joe dressed impossibly preppy now and singing "Great to Be Straight," admitting, "It's dull but I can't complain" and extolling the virtues of wings, titties and baseball.

Who knew those things defined the straight man?

I loved that the play was set in Richmond, so when Joe runs into a gay man from his past and they try to figure out how they knew each other, the guy assumes it's his looks.

As in, he'd been on the cover of Gay Fitness and Gay RVA. "Or maybe you saw me in Style Weekly?" he guesses, pulling an issue of Style out and flashing a picture of himself from a real issue.

Joe slowly discovers that when one thing changes, everything changes. "I don't seem to be able to dance anymore," he laments.

Just another straight guy problem.

It was some time after we heard a lovely rendition of "We Three Queens from Oregon Are" that Joe finally comes to his senses and wants his true self back, problems and all.

When his angel instructs him to close his eyes and click his heels together three times, he looks down and sees Joe is wearing loafers, the ultimate straight man embarrassment.

By the time he returns to his real life, it's time for the audience singalong to the Hawaiian-flavored "Come on A Wanna Laya Christmas."

First the gays were instructed to sing along and then the straights, who unexpectedly turned out to be louder, causing the drag queen playing Mrs. Claus (Liza Minnelli-style, of course) to express surprise at how many of us were in her midst.

It's scary, we're everywhere.

The show closed with the affirming "God Bless the Road Less Traveled By" with the characters taking the time to appreciate who they were and how they got to that place.

Like in the classic "It's a Wonderful Life," it was a reminder during the bustle of the holidays to pause and be grateful for how each of us matters to others.

I like to think that there are a number of boyfriends I mattered to, some my own, some belonging to others.

Sending him home to his beloved, at the end of the night I thanked tonight's borrowed one for several things- for not wearing loafers, for being able to dance and especially for treating me to a lovely evening.

Some boyfriends you send home, others you want to keep. Maybe even bite in a good way.