As Happy as Clams at High Water

You might not know it to look at me, but I have something major in common with Lincoln.

Neither of us saw the end of "Our American Cousin," although his reason was far more tragic than mine.

The funny part is, when Quill Theater's production first ran last season as part of the historical staged reading series, the performance was stopped at the moment when Booth shot Lincoln. Brilliant, right?

Tonight's reprise performance at Maymont was going to be the entire play, so Mac and I showed up an hour in advance to find a suitable spot on the Carriage House lawn, only for it to start raining gently moments later.

We took refuge under cover with another woman and fell into a discussion about a news item I'd read today saying that after years of schools moving away from teaching cursive handwriting, many schools have gone back to teaching it.

Nuns everywhere are probably celebrating.

"But like Madonna and newspapers, cursive has displayed a gritty staying power, refusing to have its loop de loops and curlicues swept to the dustbin of handwriting history."

I told my friend that it was a Louisiana senator who'd heard from a surveyor that young people couldn't read the handwriting on old documents and been shocked enough to introduce legislation requiring cursive be taught in schools again.

The woman sitting near us then apologized for eavesdropping and joined the conversation. Seems she works at the Library of Virginia where they have an ongoing volunteer project where people can sign up to transcribe old letters in the collection.

And, yep, most of the people who do it are older because they can actually read cursive. So what happens next century, I wonder, when someone happens on a cache of old correspondence and there are no cursive readers left to translate?

But I digress.

Eventually, the rain tapered off, stage hands attempted to sweep the water off the stage and the popular 1858 play could commence, albeit without lights or amplification due to the weather.

The scant audience- we were among the few brave souls who'd come out despite the forecast - obliged by moving our chairs and blankets closer to the stage. Some of us kept our umbrella within easy reach.

Aside from the clear and present danger of seeing multiple actors slipping and sliding on the wet stage, the play was great fun and it became clear within a few minutes that it had to have been written by an Englishman. Naturally, the titular cousin was loud, coarse and vulgar, unaccustomed to bathing and a prodigious consumer of victuals and drink ("I'm as dry as a sap tree in August").

A country bumpkin, in other words, used to life in Brattleboro, Vermont, not the refined drawing room of Trenchard Manor, but an honest and decent man, if nothing else. And so American.

Liz Blake White was the ideal aristocratic daughter, Florence, entitled and dismissive of those she deemed beneath her, quick with asides and eye-rolling to the audience. Even the servants are surprised when she decides to be more than decorative and pleasant to advance the family cause.

You? Grave business? Why, I thought you never had any graver business than being very pretty, very amiable and very ready to be amused.

Nice work if you can get it.

Mac and I were feeling the pain of the women in the cast having to wear heavy hoop skirt dresses - anything for art, right?  - while we sat there in our minimal sundresses, gasping for oxygen like guppies flipped out of their bowls.

Just when things were getting good - what American could resist a sweet dairymaid making cheese and butter, a woman who should have been an heiress? - artistic director Jan Powell arrived in her rain slicker in front of the stage and killed the fun announced that more rain was on the way so the show was over.

Sure, it beats a bullet to the back of the head, but it was still disappointing.

As usual, I was so very ready to continue being amused.

Steadfast and True

Doesn't matter where I'm headed
With you, I've arrived
But I know you get that all the time
Life is too short not to wake up beside you every day
But I know, I know, I know that's what they all say
You don't even have to love me back

~Lynchburg band Steal the Prize "Love Me Back"

I sure know how to show a girl a good time.

To start, I'll take her to dinner, although I'll also tell her what to order and use my hired mouth to eat part of everything she gets. And although I couldn't have planned for it, I'll take full credit for the unintended entertainment of men at a nearby table and their false bravado at eating challenges.

Then, because I know what she likes, I'll suggest a mile walk to enjoy the glorious weather - sunny, warm and very breezy, but most notably, nearly non-existent humidity - with a destination of Bev's, where we find a line nearly out the door but moving steadily.

When I order a classic hot fudge sundae with extra hot fudge for my topping, the young woman behind the counter smiles knowingly and says, "I got you covered," putting my regular scoop of mint chip into a large dish so that the obscene amount of hot fudge won't burble over the sides.

Handing it to me so I can pay, she ogles it one last time. "That looks so good, I wish I was eating it." What it looks like really is a dish of hot fudge since the ice cream is completely obliterated by the chocolate on top, so I understand her envy.

Eating it while my girlfriend licks a strawberry cone, we discuss how the line of customers looks like a tourism photo op with attractive people of various ages and colors happily waiting their turn for ice cream, yet more proof that Richmond is a happening place full of local charm every night of the week.

We even reminisce about the original Bev's over on Belmont, a place likely unfamiliar to every single person in line except long-timers like us.

After strolling back to the car, I'll suggest a movie, something critically acclaimed and vaguely foreign like "A Bigger Splash" (perfectly named after a David Hockmey painting) at Movieland, and she'll agree solely based on the name Ralph Fiennes, only realizing that it's also the new Tilda Swinton movie once we're there.

It's obvious the weather is far too wonderful to sit inside and watch a movie, as evidenced by there being only three other people in the theater, but we persevere for the sake of art and the handsome Matthias Schoenaerts.

And what art! From the landscapes of a breathtaking Italian island to Swinton's wardrobe which could have been borrowed from an old Audrey Hepburn movie (because no one but Tilda or Audrey had the height and lithe figure for so much fabric), pretty people and places abounded.

Because women dig this kind of stuff, it's got to be a girlfriend you take to a movie that places so much emphasis on the unbelievably fantastic relationship of a couple who are completely into each other mentally and physically.

And may I just say for the record how satisfying it is to see as much male nudity as female?

The film takes a darker turn when Fiennes as her ex-lover and former producer ("One way or another, we're going to grow old together") shows up with his nubile and scantily-clad 17-year old daughter in tow, a sure sign bad things are on the horizon.

Fiennes is a whirling dervish of a man who never shuts up, or eases up on his full court press to win back his ex, but it's a scene where he dances unabashedly to the Stones' "Emotional Rescue" that shows the real measure of the man as an uninhibited actor.

Meanwhile, Swinton manages to demonstrate her superb acting chops with a role that only allows her to whisper occasionally and never speak out loud, despite playing a rock star with Chrissie Hynde-like hair and Bowie-like make-up.

Best of all for my date and me, the movie clarifies nothing, shows little yet much, and ultimately ends on a discomforting note like all good foreign arthouse films do.

Some nights, all you need is the right woman to share that much with.

I Do Want Change

How about Wednesday?
I can not go.
Okay, do you want to do something any other night?
Thursday or Friday?
How about Cinema Noir? 
OK, cool!
So we're on for Thursday?
Yeppers.
Okay, so I want to stop by the opening of the new exhibit at the Branch Museum before the movie. If you want to join me for that, we can go somewhere first to eat.
You are such a party animal! I'm off at 2, so sounds all good to me!

You read right, I got called a party animal for wanting to go to an architecture museum and eat dinner before a movie. Whoa, things are getting crazy here.

Say, what happened to late nights, excessive drinking and wild behavior...or is that so party animal 2015?

Doesn't matter, I suppose, since we had a fine time at dinner, seat-dancing to the '80s and stuffing our faces for the sake of my livelihood (he's good about always taking home the leftovers so I don't have to) while talking about life.

It was important to him to bring me up to speed on the hilarious SNL "The Day Beyonce Turned Black" video  - "Kerry Washington can't be black! She's on ABC!" - once we finished eating.

Apparently he worries about others mocking my lack of cultural literacy and he's here to save me from that.

Judging by the sedate-looking crowd at the Branch Museum, I certainly didn't need to be up to speed before the opening of "The Historic American Buildings Survey: Documenting Virginia's Architectural Heritage," not that I didn't find it fascinating.

Turns out that HABS was yet another brilliant New Deal initiative in 1933, implemented to begin the important preservation process as it pertains to the built environment, engineering technologies and landscape design.

An architecture nerd's wet dream, in other words.

Using large-format black and white photographs and detailed architectural renderings, the exhibit displayed the work of countless people who painstakingly recorded specifics about important buildings, such as the Rising Sun Tavern on Caroline Street in Fredericksburg (a street I know well), erected before 1781, and Bacon's Castle in Surry County, built before 1676.

Equally familiar to me were Menokin on the Northern Neck, the Jefferson Memorial in Washington and Monticello, although the specificity of details was far greater than any average Joe would know, or even any art history fanatic.

When we left there, it was for me to get a hot fudge sundae at Bev's - where we were alone since ice cream is not the most popular sweet in February - while my friend explained his lactose intolerance and sipped a cup of coffee, his drug of choice.

In no hurry, we took the alley on our way out, resulting in a couple of fun discoveries. The first was a mural on a garage door of the "Spy versus Spy" characters expertly rendered and the other was a discarded mattress on which someone had spray-painted, "Nothing else mattress."

Dyslexia humor is a wonderful thing.

Eventually, we made our way over to Manchester's Browne Gallery on Hull Street for Cinema Noir where I found myself back on the same stretch I'd walked a few weeks ago, discovering Croaker's Spot and Sweet Fix Bakery in the process.

The gallery was filling up quickly, so we nabbed seats in the second row and another friend showed up to sit just in front of us. One of the great things about this event is the pre-film music and tonight's was especially good, all Earth, Wind and Fire in tribute to Maurice White's recent earthly exit.

Several EWF album covers were placed around the gallery as visual reminders, a couple next to a classic classroom turntable, inspiring my friend to ask, "Where's the slide projector?" like the AV Club geek he probably was.

Tonight's short film was director Pete Chaimon's "Blackcard," a subtly scathing look at a world where a group called The Commission makes it their job to check on infractions by African Americans of the "black code."

The audience was cracking up within the first two minutes of the film.

It began with Commission staff raiding a woman's refrigerator, nodding in approval at malt liquor, sniffing a pitcher of ice tea to determine if it was sweetened and ultimately discovering unacceptable items such as kale and, later, a book by Malcolm Gladwell.

"Malcolm Galdwell?" the agent asks. You'd have thought he found "Mein Kampf."

It's these kinds of things that cause our heroine Lona to lose her black card, a fact that doesn't bother her boyfriend because he thinks self trumps race. She's not so sure.

Interrogating another man about his blackness, the guy admits to voting for Romney. Incredulous, the Commission investigator, asks, "You didn't want change?"

The films' leitmotif - whether to chose oneself over one's race - provided much of the post-film discussion with director Pete, looking very hip perched in a director's chair at the front of the room.

"Black is not a genre," he said, explaining why he thought of the term as pejorative. A film made by and/or with blacks can be any genre a white film can: romance, sci-fi, western, comedy or drama, a fact which should be obvious to anyone.

Although his film contained much to laugh at, he saw the comedy as being in service of the dramatic element, namely Lona trying to get her black card back and, ultimately, Leonard laying his on the ground and opting to follow his own path rather than the prescribed racial one.

Pete pulled out metaphors galore and a recent eating example -questioning his own meal of quinoa in Los Angeles as "un-black" - to explain the importance of making individual calls about what kind of black you choose to be.

Many of his tight, slightly awkward camera angles owed a debt to Terry Gilliams' "Brazil," he explained, saying, "You're going to turn me into a film nerd now."

Truth be told, that's the absolute beauty of these Cinema Nouir evenings. As intriguing as it is to get to see a contemporary black film short, it's always the discussion afterwards that makes them such compelling evenings.

I'm far more interested in the day Richmond becomes successfully multi-racial than I am the day Beyonce became black. What's cool is that Cinema Noir and the Afrikanna Film Fest are chipping away at that every single month.

And if I have to be a party animal to be a part of that, well, that's the way of the world.

Life is Beautiful

We're getting down to the wire.

My oh-so pregnant friend and I thought it best to schedule a long lunch before she becomes unexpectedly unavailable for lunch or anything else.

It was a no-brainer to end up at La Parisienne, our favorite obscure getaway for its sunny ambiance and patio.

Since we'd been in last, there had been some changes.

Now that they do a regular salsa dancing night, the dessert case is gone and a settee has replaced a couple of the former high tables.

Since we arrived toward the end of the lawyers' lunch hour (the building is crawling with them), we had no difficulty finding a shady outside table.

She orders the exact same salad and fries lunch every time we go while I switch it up, this time choosing the La Parisienne crepe, a combination of city ham and Swiss cheese.

I just like the sound of "city ham."

When I went to pay, she wasn't having any of it.

"My treat because I'm proud of you for starting to date," she said, beaming.

Now that's a good friend.

We sat outside in the afternoon sun talking about the men in my life - a couple of new suitors and a recurring character, someone she remembers me seeing a couple of years back.

From her, I heard about work frustrations and the impending life change of adding a baby to her already-hectic world.

I wouldn't want her life right now and she certainly wouldn't want mine.

On the other hand, in many ways, we are two of a kind.

To that point, a familiar face passed by us, spotted her, looked over at me and we watched as he realized that while he knew us both separately, he hadn't realized we knew each other.

His restaurant and music worlds were colliding right before his eyes.

"Did you see him get that "of course they're friends" look?" my friend laughed. I had.

We lingered outside so long that our poor server kept coming out just to check on us when there was nothing to check.

Eventually we got the hint and moved on.

Since we don't know how much more girl time we have, we were reluctant to end our date.

Instead, we drove to Bev's in Carytown for ice cream, something I'd suggested weeks ago after seeing the Big Star documentary when she'd declined.

Today, looking at the Labor Day weekend and the symbolic end of summer, it seemed like an ideal way to wrap up our afternoon.

She got fudge swirl and I asked for mint chocolate chip, but was served chocolate chip.

Close enough.

Today it was the company and the occasion that mattered more than anything else.

It'll be interesting to see where the two of us are next time we can wile away an afternoon like we did today.

Here's to change and whatever it may bring.

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?

Andare a Pescare

I was invited to a cocktail party with a travel theme.

The wine was Anjos Vinho Verde, tasting of grapefruit and apples.

With logos of KLM and SAS for decoration, the conversation was all about how much time is required to prepare for a trip, how much napping should be done upon arrival and how enthusiastic a reception a woman might get in certain Latin countries.

I think I got some bets placed on me succeeding at that.

We noshed on Caprese with artichokes on baguette slices and fresh melon balls to keep up our strength for what was to come.

Once the wine kicked in, the conversation began to range off-theme and to music, not surprisingly given the soundtrack.

Somehow a discussion of what superior lyricists older men and writers can be led to discussion of The Police.

I shared how a former boyfriend had once told me that "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" was the most ardent tribute to a lover imaginable.

Someone else recalled seeing The Police on the "Ghost in the Machine " tour in 1982.

The best I could offer was seeing Sting on the "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour in '85.

To the best of my abilities, I shared my memories of that late summer evening at Merriweather Post Pavilion.

And, forgive me, then I became a 21st-century creature and looked it up, finding  a Washington Post review of that very show I'd seen.

I'd bet anything that I'd read it the day after.

It was mind-blowing to be reminded of the details of that long-ago night.

Let's face it, at that point, he was just going out on his own so the jury was still out on a post-Police career.

Would the public even care?

Reviewer Richard Harrington said that Sting had proved that night that he was "an arresting pop presence even outside the context of the Police."

Now that sounds like a "duh" moment, but not so in 1985.

Of his songs, he wrote,"Often built upon sinuous melodies, they are ambitious both lyrically and thematically."

Don't forget, this was before Sting the Activist with a capital A. Sting = causes was not yet a given.

And the review also reminded me about which Police songs Sting had performed that warm night.

"Every Breath' needs to be as starkly arranged as it was originally perceived [and] did not benefit from a fleshed-out arrangement."

In other words, don't mess with the Breath.

Clearly we were still taking our Police songs very seriously in 1985.

Not so tonight.

Music chit-chat yielded to theater-goer watching from a fifth floor window.

A couple of us made a game of guessing whether people walking toward the Virginia Repertory Theater were going to "Spring Awakening" or not.

Good thing we weren't betting.

It was funny when we saw a guy walking that way when all of a sudden, he darted behind a tree, not once but twice.

Trying to ditch a boring date? Unhappy at being dragged to the theater on a Friday evening?

Nope, just one of the theater's valets trying to sneak up on his fellow car-parker.

After a bit of street voyeurism, some of us decided that ice cream was in order and that meant Bev's.

Coldstone was within walking distance, but who wants to support a chain?

That point was driven home when I arrived first and waited for my partner in ice cream to catch up.

A woman eating a cone out front saw a friend walking by and explained why she was there.

"We just came from Mama Zu and we're so stuffed. But I told Mom and Dad," she said gesturing to the older ice cream-eating duo in nearby chairs, "That you can't come to Richmond and not go to Bev's."

A girl about to open the door to Bev's looked at her and said, "I haven't been here since 2005."

Aghast, the stuffed woman guided her roughly towards the door. "Go! Now!"

She did.

Inside, I tried one of tonight's special flavors, dirty chocolate, described as a triple fudge chocolate.

No additions, but a deep, rich chocolate fudge taste.

I was a little sorry I'd only ordered the kiddie size cup.

My fellow party-goer had been smart, getting a waffle cone of chocolate almond three times the size of my measly scoop.

Lesson learned.

We sat for a while and watched the Byrd crowd exit and saunter to their cars.

Once finished with our summer treat, we strolled the neighborhood, nostalgic because it was one in which we'd both lived back in the '90s.

To our surprise, new houses and even a new garage had been built.

A hand-written sign on the screen door of Tom French Flowers read, "Gone Fishin'."

Now there's a worthy summertime occupation.

Everyone knows "gone fishin" is just a euphemism for "gone to someplace more relaxing and pleasurable for a spell."

After tonight's travel-themed get-together, I can't wait to hang out my own hand-written sign.

It'll be my euphemism for "Off trying to prove that I can be an arresting presence even outside the context of RVA."

The jury's still out on whether or not I'll succeed.

Mexicali Ghosts

The summer officially began for me tonight with the kickoff of Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour series.

I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.

Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.

They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.

When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.

A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.

I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.

Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.

"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.

Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."

Then they did just that.

I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.

When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.

To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).

I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.

Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.

After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."

The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.

Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.

They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.

Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.

Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.

That's my kind of cocktail hour.

Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"

Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.

Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.

When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.

The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.

Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.

Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?

Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.

Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.

When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.

"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"

I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.

And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."

I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song


The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."

Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.

When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.

After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."

In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.

Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson  hours ago.

And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.

It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.

And reason 85297.

Heartbreak Beat

Sometimes the best way to be a good friend is to share some emotional eating.

When I messaged a friend about getting together tonight, my question about what he was doing was answered with, "Being pissed at my ex."

Although it's been coming for a while, he broke up with her yesterday, so understandably he's still processing.

But, as I told him, sitting around being pissed at her was not a worthwhile way to spend his evening and he agreed.

No, far better to go eat dollar tacos at Little Mexico and rant to me than sit at home and stew. And that's exactly what we did.

The arriving crowds were non-stop, the service incredibly fast and his chicken and my beef tacos perfectly serviceable.

But even with non-stop relationship talk while we ate, we were in and out in record time.

I suggested continuing the unloading with a gooey dessert so we went to Bev's.

A couple of indecisive girls let us go ahead of them and I took no time ordering a classic hot fudge sundae (no topping but double hot fudge).

My friend chose to taste the new basil ice cream while I sat down.

Meanwhile the girls decided and ordered. When the first of their ice creams was set down on the counter, my friend went to take a bite of it.

"Hey, that's my ice cream!" one of the girls said to him.

"That's hers!" I yelled from my seat, trying to stop him.

In another world, he took a bite without ever hearing either of us.

Oops.

That ice cream went in the trash tout suite. But it was an amusing distraction and just what he needed.

As we sat there eating our sundaes and getting more stuffed by the minute, we recalled another time we'd gone for sushi and then come to Bev's.

That night we'd promised each other that we'd never make that mistake again.

Oops.

On the other hand, with each bite, his mood was improving.

When we left, I suggested a walk knowing that the ex hated to walk after eating while he enjoyed it.

Leading the way, I headed straight to the VMFA's sculpture garden (since I'd not seen it at night) while he continued to talk about what was on his mind.

The garden was beautiful with the lighted water steps, the illuminated burbling fountains up top and the lit pathways through it all.

Near the top, we considered how the wooden deck would make a stellar dance pavilion, like the ones at the beaches in days of yore. It even had the sound of moving water in the background.

We stood on the lone metal bench at the very top of the garden, surveying everything below us.

It's a postcard-worthy view of our world-class museum after hours.

Meandering back to Bev's, we detoured so I could show him my favorite screened porch and yard in all of the Museum District.

Our last discussion was about what he should have learned from this last relationship; he wanted to take all the blame and I wouldn't let him.

"You learned how important it is to make sure you can both communicate with the person you love," I told him.

In my experience, you can never talk too much or too long.

But, what do I know? He's been unattached for 24 hours and my current status stands at over two and a half years.

Hell, he should be taking me out for some emotional eating.

Blue Velvet Trumped by Beer Day

What do you mean it's National Beer Day?

As I approached Capital Ale House, there were boisterous people practically hanging out the front windows and bluegrass was blaring from within.

What the...?

I was there to meet a friend to see Blue Velvet and have an evening of surrealistic film noir.

Who were these people and how had beer replaced a cult classic?

The guy at the front sheepishly admitted that Blue Velvet had been bumped for Beer Day, but said it would hopefully be rescheduled (although he admitted that sometimes when a film gets bumped, it never gets shown).

Not a good way to build a following for your weekly movie series, my friends, but we all know beer rules at Cap Ale.

Seeing my disappointment, he at least had the decency to apologize repeatedly, as if he had let me down personally.

My friend said we should punish them by going elsewhere for dinner, but I'm guessing they got over the loss pretty quickly.

For something completely different, we went to Akida where we over-ordered and stuffed ourselves.

We got spicy seafood salad, spider rolls, dragon phoenix rolls, avocado rolls and a special of rice balls.

They were made of spicy tuna, crab meat, tobiko, cream cheese and rice, deep-fried with eel sauce, a wonderfully sweet complement to the balls.

I loved the spider rolls, with their soft-shell crab parts sticking out of the rolls. We took home almost as much as we ate.

Not that we weren't stuffed to the gills, but with nothing but time, we went over to Carytown for dessert.

The line at Bev's was long considering they closed in less than a half hour, but we waited patiently, watching the stressed faces of the counter people who probably aren't used to a run on ice cream in early April.

We both got hot fudge sundaes and strolled Cary Street as we ate.

And while there were your typical surreal Carytown moments - children on leashes, groups of beautiful young Czech girls admiring each other, studded traveler kids asking us for change for $2, a jocular Mideastern clerk at 7-11 insisting to the other clerk that I had not paid for my Washington Post - it couldn't really compare to severed ears and sadomasochism.

Still, it wasn't a bad showing for Richmond.

Or, as Jeffrey Beaumont says in Blue Velvet, "It's a strange world."