Brunettes are Troublemakers

Today was definitely a day for spending with like-minded souls.

On this gray, soggy day, I woke up to a message from my best friend in Texas.

Feeling nauseous especially just seeing Hilary and Bill sit, ready to listen to Trump's shit. Are you going to watch?
Not for all the $ in the world.
It was just like his campaign spewage. Totally disrespected former presidents in attendance. He spoke to the populace instead of trying to mend all those that have been offended. Very divisive.

Okay, I lied because I would have sat through it for all the money in the world, but no one was offering me that, so I went for a drizzly walk and drove to Williamsburg to spend the afternoon with an El Salvadoran immigrant who feels privileged to be living the American Dream.

As we sat in one of his restaurants, I interviewed him about his journey and the thrill of becoming a legal resident 15 years ago while behind me, a TV was tuned to a Spanish-speaking station covering the protests in D.C today.

It was interesting to listen to as we talked because Spanish would be flowing smoothly, only to be interrupted when the newscaster had to say "Trump," a word which cannot be made to sound fluid and effectively halts the progression of a sentence with its staccato single syllable.

A close second was the word "Twitter," which also didn't exactly roll off the lips.

Talking to a man who lived through El Salvador's civil wars which caused his family to be completely uprooted and displaced - homes and businesses taken by the rebels three times - only to land in Virginia, fail at his first restaurant yet go on to open eight more, making him feel like the luckiest man in the world, I couldn't help but contrast that with the sounds behind me as people protested the inauguration of a man who wants to shut the door on immigration in a country built on the backs of immigrants.

Oh, the irony. Fortunately, relief was in sight.

Planned for those of us having a tough time with today's coronation of a misogynist racist pig, the Bijou's fascist film festival offered Charlie Chaplin's classic take on right wing authoritarianism, the satirical "The Great Dictator."

As if by divine intervention, while mingling in the lobby, a guy introduced himself and his posse of three as Atlantans en route to the Women's March, one the college roommate of a Bijou co-founder. I liked them all immediately so we took over the front row of the theater.

The film's title card alone was worth the price of admission for how relevant it felt on this day.

This is a story of a period between two World Wars - an interim in which insanity cut loose, liberty took a nose dive and humanity was kicked around somewhat.

That's Exhibit "A" and further proof of the Bijou's absolute brilliance in choosing this particular film to play on this difficult day, not to mention their prescience in knowing that we'd also need a reason to laugh, which Chaplin delivered in spades.

Although I'd seen several of his silent films, this was the first of his talkies (and his first talkie) I'd seen, so I was pleasantly surprised at what a fine speaking voice he had. And while I wasn't surprised at all the physical humor, the Bijou audience reacted with belly laughs throughout.

At least right up until the end when Chaplin gives his "You, the people" speech, the one about why peace and goodwill, brotherhood and kindness needed to win out over prejudice, discrimination and dictatorships. The human truth.

It was positively stirring and just exactly what scared and disillusioned people needed to hear today.

Mingling again in the lobby afterwards, everyone talking was blown away, not only by how good the film had been but by how ideally suited it was to this time we're now living in. If only Trump's doppelganger could appear and spout such things instead of polarizing rhetoric.

When one of the guys I'd met asked James, his former roommate, for a good place for pizza and pasta, he referred the question to me. I told him Nota Bene for the win and he plugged it into his phone.

Next thing I know, they're asking me to join them for dinner and James jokes, "I can vouch for all of them except him," pointing to his college buddy. So now I've got a personal recommendation and post-film plans. Not bad for just showing up.

They'd already scored a table in the back when I arrived to join them and with bottles of Italian Rose and Temperanillo, we soon began a round robin style conversation, going around the table every time a point was raised or question asked so everyone could hear each person's answer.

They joked that I was just the latest stranger they'd picked up en route to D.C., the charming Scotch artist across from me having been acquired yesterday in Chapel Hill where they'd spent the night with the ringleader's mother, an award-winning author.

We went around the table about whether or not Trump would make it four years (and if not, why not?), our favorite scenes in "The Great Dictator" and, naturally everyone's first concert: Buffet (she claimed she didn't choose it), Elvis (in '74, so fat Elvis), Kraftwerk (he's seen them four times since) and Depeche Mode in '87 (swoon).

They were all in love with the restaurant, captivated by the food - arugula and chickpea salad, two orders of broccolini with lemon, garlic and fresno peppers, three different kinds of pizza and white pork Bolognese to die for.

"We'd never have found this place without you and it's amazing," one guy told me. The flip side was that without them, I wouldn't have had anyone to discuss the movie with in depth, much less commiserate with about the reign of horror that began today.

They were my company on a day when my misery was looking for some, discussing what could possibly improve with Trump and whether non-voters might feel differently come 2020. Everyone weighed in.

They became my surrogates tomorrow, making me an honorary member of their march entourage, in spirit anyway.

And because they were good people, when they learned I'd parked three blocks away, they insisted - a gay couple and a straight couple, none of whom had ever laid eyes on me before 6:00 tonight - on walking me to my car, or at least most of the way.

As they clustered on the corner of 23rd Street as I walked down the hill to my car, the ringleader called out, "The Brit doesn't care about your safety. He's heading back!" Assuring them they could all go back, he joked, "Call us when you get home!"

Hilarious because they already knew me well enough to burst out laughing when I yelled back, "I'll call you on my cell phone!" See, Luddites can be amusing.

I got home to one last bit of business, a message from a friend with a kind offer.

I'm carrying names on the #womansmarch tomorrow. Let me know if you want yours to be included.

Yes, please, add mine, preferably with an addendum: I can't believe we still have to protest this shit. Now my spirit and name will be there.

It appears that we've turned the page and are now living in an era where insanity has been cut loose, liberty is on a nose dive and humanity has been completely kicked around, yet good people are all around me.

We're in this together. As Chaplin's character said, "We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery."

And on a difficult day, friends, immigrants and good company were the way to stay sane.

Hold It, My Strumpet

Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as understood. ~ George Orwell, 1984

We'll start with my walk, which reliably delivers a defense for what is good in the world.

A pretty woman walking leisurely down Marshall Street in a tight blue dress and 4" blue heels on a sunny afternoon. Seeing a bug-eyed man admiring her, I comment that she looks so good, how could he possibly not look, to which he responds, "I know, right?" never taking his eyes off her.

At the John Marshall House, a crew of Hands On Richmond volunteers are painting the white picket fence outside the 19th century house, only occasionally dropping globules of paint on the brick wall, sort of a t-shirt clad group of Tom Sawyers.

On 11th Street, I hear the sounds of symphonic instruments before I see the musicians playing on the gracious patio of the Wickham House. A woman pushing a man in a wheelchair stops and puts the brakes on, saying to her husband, "Why don't we listen for a bit?"

It's such a lovely Fall day that I sweep leaves and pull weeds to make myself feel better about sleeping through Jackson Ward's clean-up day this morning.

For a refresher on the darker side, I need only turn to my daily culture.

First there's the documentary,"The Lovers and the Despot," the Bijou's offering this weekend and while I arrived a few minutes late for the afternoon screening, I didn't miss any of the film.

Good thing, too, because the story was so far-fetched, you had to keep reminding yourself that this was all based on real life to buy into it.

Still, it was jaw dropping to learn about North Korean leader and film fanatic Kim Jong-Il ordering a big name South Korean actress and her director ex-husband kidnapped in 1978 and brought to North Korea to (what else?) make films.

Seems he found North Korean films boring and burdened with too much crying, so he wanted some fresh creative blood in his country, the better to outdo South Korea's movie industry and put the North on the international film map.

All Kim Jong-Il wanted in return was complete obedience. No big deal, right?

Wait, what?

Wrong as the spoiled ruler's actions were, he gave director Shin not only complete artistic control but state-of-the-art filmmaking equipment and facilities and, realistically, what filmmaker wouldn't be seduced into not betraying a tyrant for all that?

That the kidnapping resulted in him being reunited with his ex-wife Choi was just gravy on top. Some people are just meant to be lovers.

What impressed me about the documentary was the amount of footage beyond talking heads - some of it taken during Choi's time in the company of the North Korean leader, some from films the couple made there and in South Korea over the years and some that was just audio recorded on a portable tape recorder by Choi when they met with the dictator.

What surprised me most was not that people questioned Shin's honesty - the issue of whether he'd defected or been kidnapped was only kind of resolved, although what artist chooses to go to a Communist country?  - but that I had never even heard of this couple or how they showed up at the U.S. embassy in Vienna in 1986 seeking asylum.

Granted, we didn't have all the media sources then that we do now, but I feel like defections were always well publicized. I leave the Bijou eager to discuss the movie with anyone who'll have me.

Carrying forward with that theme - abdication of self to the collective good - I met Mac at Firehouse to see their production of "UBU 84" from the very last row, a place I've never had the chance to sit at Firehouse before.

Mashing up Orwell's "1984" with an absurdist comedy called "King Ubu," resulted in simultaneous exposure to two scenarios proving that there will always be more than one face to evil and it may not always be a recognizable one.

Because there's definitely something inherently evil about the paring down of language, the limiting of self-expression and the erasing of history to better explain the present.

Foster Solomon owned the stage as Pere Ubu, clad in quilt-patterned leggings with striped socks. He also got topical running after Kimberly Jones Clark as Ma Ubu, chasing and calling to her, "I got a big sausage for you. I'm gonna grab your pussy!"

Betrayal again reared its ugly head with Charlie Raintree as Winston, a man who dares to explores human connection, and ultimately love, in a room he thinks is outside of Big Brother's purview (except nothing is ever outside of Big Brother's purview), yet ultimately betrays her.

Pay attention, kids, this is eerily relevant to today's chaotic political scene.

As for the paring down of language, I can conceive of no good reason why we'd ever want to eliminate words. As a long time word nerd, one of my pet peeves is when people say, "I could care less" when what they actually mean is "I couldn't care less."

For those who can't remember the difference, "UBU 84" reminded us that what we mean is, "I couldn't care any less."

And when most of the citizenry couldn't care any less, we're probably already well on our way to the dark side.

Which is exactly why I need a life-affirming, bird-chirping,  picket-painting walk every single day.

Kick Out the Jams

It was out of the natural order but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

When it comes to spinning vintage 45s, my heart belongs to Mr. Fine Wine, the problem being that it had been ten months since he'd made the trek from New Jersey to Metzger and I was jonesing badly.

I know we have a lot of great DJs in this town and I have friends who are superb DJs, but no one has ever quite nailed my musical needs on the dance floor quite like Mr. Fine Wine and it's for this reason that I would move heaven and hell to catch him when he comes to town.

Tonight, as it turned out, I didn't need to do much more than work into the early evening before Mac arrived to accompany me to Metzger's Oktoberfest.

Granted, I don't drink beer and true, sunset was nigh and the event had already been going on for close to seven hours when we arrived to find a bored-looking cop popping a squat in his cruiser, probably alternately mocking the crowd and checking the police radio.

You see, tonight's Fine Wine dance party was happening on a closed-off street, part of the Oktoberfest vibe and therein lies the rub.

If there's one thing that's a constant at all Metzger's throwdowns where he DJs, it's the heat. You can't very well fill a small restaurant to capacity with sweaty dancers and not expect the temperature to rise.

But when you're dancing outdoors on a breezy 68 degree night, such issues are moot.

But the party began with listening (nay, reveling in), not dancing, as we arrived, took stock of the knots of people and decided our course of action. Food was first.

The restaurant's windows were being utilized as order and pick-up stations, so we placed our order for roast chicken, sauerkraut and an obscenely over-sized soft pretzel with Chef Brittney after chatting her up.

When she thanked me for coming, I reminded her that I'd yet to miss a Fine Wine evening and that my main purpose in coming tonight was just that. Food and drink were mere icing on the cake. "I know, I wish more people were paying attention to the music," she lamented, a fact I'd already noticed.

Clearly most of the Oktoberfest celebrants had either no knowledge of this component of the festivities or else were oblivious to the non-stop rare yet catchy series of three-minute soul gems he was spinning.

Either way, it was tragic.

She allowed that while tonight's weather was glorious for the occasion, the street had been a miserable place along about mid-afternoon on this especially warm Fall day without so much as a lick of shade anywhere.

Our delayed arrival, it seems, was perfectly timed.

Job one was scoring Ruby Salts and slurping them standing up while mulling over the wisdom of cocktail sauce next to them (far better the accompanying lemon or mignonette, even upright) while I told her about a rainy afternoon in the kitchen of the woman anointed world's best oyster shucker, with the only warmth coming from the oven.

Mostly, we talked about "mens," as she called them and what a problem they can be. You can't buy memories like that.

Food in hand, we roosted on the steps of the church just on the other side of the magic chain that delineated the biergarten, with a clear view of Mr. You Know Who and his seemingly endless supply of obscure R & B vinyl that was already causing my hips to twitch.

After devouring crispy-skinned chicken (the juicy leg being my favorite), tangy kraut and what amounted to an everything pretzel, we procured glasses of Gruner Veltliner and took up residency on the street dance floor.

Since it was Mac's first time, I was hardly surprised when she repeatedly turned to me to say, "Man, this music is just so good!" Tell me about it....or, better yet, ask the tall guy in leiderhosen dancing non-stop. Or the trio using a hula hoop to dance over and through.

For the most part, the crowd was unfamiliar to me, unlike at past Fine Wine events, but there was one major difference tonight and it was a doozy.

This vinyl party was to stop at 9:00. For someone who's used to him starting to spin at 11, it was enough to make me dread the stroke of nine.

Not long before that cataclysmic event, a couple came over to say hi and I recognized them because we'd met previously when he'd approached me to share that his wife was a devoted reader of my blog. Apparently, she still feels shy about approaching me, despite also feeling like she knows me well given how long she's been reading about my life.

Hoping to prove the point that the blog is just another vehicle to meet people, I introduced her to Mac, suggesting she ask her how we'd come to be out together.

Because, of course, our friendship was a direct result of the blog. You just never know where a new pal is coming from.

Two beer-loving friends came over to talk, telling me they'd gone to Pridefest on Brown's Island to see my favorite cover band, Trunk Show, play this afternoon, a show I'd had to forego to work on assignments.

So, what did they play?

"Let's see, Amy Winehouse, um, there was some David Bowie..." he said, trailing off. I bet there was Fleetwood Mac, I said. "How'd you know that?" he said, sounding incredulous.

Simple, I miss about as many Cover to Cover shows as I do Mr. Fine Wine nights, although the former ends around 9 and the latter, usually not until 2 a.m. I only wish tonight.

Promptly at 9, the music died, although the man who'd introduced me to WFMU's master DJ gave him permission to play one final song, but even one final hour would never have been enough, so when that ended, we knew we had to move on.

Or as one of the more amusing staffers yelled, "The cops want you guys to get the hell out of the street!" and people began to disperse.

After a heartfelt thanks to Mr. Fine Wine, who was kind enough to remember me from past evenings, and a soulful sigh, we exited stage right.

Fortunately, I had another stellar plan, although sadly, this one didn't involve dancing.

The Bijou - the new arthouse theater that has laid claim to my last three Saturday nights, mind you - was showing the music documentary "Danny Says" about rock gadfly and former Ramones/MC5/Stooges manager Danny Fields.

Adding to the cachet of the film was that today was arthouse theater day, meaning the Bijou was showing a film that hasn't even opened nationally yet.

Yet again, Richmond manages to be too cool for school.

When one of the co-founders thanked me for coming, I reminded him I'm practically a fixture lately. "You class up the joint," he kindly told me before Mac and I joined her man in third row seats to eat gratis popcorn.

The film was a who's who of music talent from the '60s to the late '70s - Judy Collins (who kindly took Danny to a beach so he could enjoy his first acid trip at the ocean...now that's a friend), Iggy Pop (young and old, but always lean and leathery), Alice Cooper - but the undisputed star of it all was the interviews of Reid, who manages to distance himself and completely immerse himself in the tangential glow of musical evolution, which he helped shape with his support of underdog punk bands he believed in.

But as a film and photography geek, I was bowled over by all the archival footage, including a recording of Danny playing the Ramones for Lou Reed the first time ("This is the greatest thing I've ever heard!") and hearing that MC5 was the only band with a minister of defense.

You don't learn these nuggets unless you're a dedicated documentary dork and you're lucky enough to have a small, independent theater looking out for your film needs.

Nor do you have your killer Saturday night tied neatly with a bow when you learn that Danny did a stint as a DJ at WFMU, coincidentally, the same WFMU that currently hosts Mr. Fine Wine's ode to the music of my heart, Downtown Soulville.

I could have danced all night and still have begged for more.

Heavy on the Old Bay

GOD, tell me what I am doing wrong! Love, d 
~ note written in black Sharpie on back of Pick 4 lottery card found on 3rd Street

We'll call it a personal best: I saw four films today.

There was the morning walk to Movieland to see "Stir Crazy," party of their ongoing Gene Wilde tribute series. Walking down Leigh Street with Mac, we passed the crab guys I've passed a hundred times, only today I stopped to check crab prices.

When I explained that I'd walked by his crab stand all those times, Mr. Jimmy chuckled and said, "I know that's true. I've seen you in your hat walking by a whole lot of times. When are you coming back for crabs?"

Fair enough. But first we had a 1980 movie to see and while several lines of dialog were still lodged in my brain  - "Carry me back to ole Virginny" for one and "We bad!" for another - I had no memory that Sidney Poitier directed or that the film began with Gene Wilder singing "Crazy" to a jazz combo accompaniment.

And don't even get me started on Gene Wilder's pink Izod shirt and sweater tied over his shoulders or the pink bandana jauntily tied around his neck while he's doing hard labor on a rock pile.

But mostly it was a fabulous Gene Wilder vehicle, his character a trusting, optimistic cornball capable of turning us into laughing fools with his delivery.

Warden: I have good news for you.
Wilder: My wine magazines came?

Needless to say, we left with a renewed appreciation of Wilder's genius and a trip down Memory Lane as I commented on Kiki Dee singing over the closing credits.

Mac: Who's Kiki Dee?
Me: She did a duet with Elton John called "Don't Go Breaking My Heart"
Mac: Ohhhh, Kiki Dee.

After a shared lunch in service of my hired mouth, Mac abandoned me for men and dogs while I made my way to the Bijou for my next dose of Afrikana Film Fest, this time the documentary "Hip Hop Fellow" about, that's right, DJ/producer/professor 9th Wonder, aka the Hip Hop Fellow at Harvard.

As far as I was concerned, this was the most compelling film being shown because it had never occurred to met that Harvard would have such a thing. Turns out they've got an actual hip hop archive and I don't even know which to be more impressed by.

Walking up 3rd Street, I saw Afrikana's photographer appear from around the corner and immediately train her camera in my direction, snapping and laughing as she went. We're both in on the joke.

It was a full house for "Hip Hop Fellow" and why not when the film did such a fine job of explaining how his research shows hip hop bridging gaps between generations while developing a greater appreciation for sampling?

9th referred to what he does as "hip hop archaeology," an apt descriptor considering the way he'd dig deep into a classic hip hop album to identify every single sample used, whether it was 10 or 30 because he sees samples as a way of introducing younger audiences to older music  they either missed or dismissed.

Scholar and literary critic Kenneth Gates explains in the film, "Sampling is what Western literature is all about. Look at T.S. Elliott, Melville or James Joyce's "Ulysses" which is stolen from "The Odyssey. We call it the art of literary license."

Ahem, aka sampling.

9th Wonder talked and took questions afterward, deflecting one about how slow Richmond is to embrace its own musical talent. "That's every city," he said. "They didn't like Jesus in Jerusalem."

So how could I not return for the afterparty later, knowing he was going to DJ it? Film, talk, hit play...a practically perfect trifecta.

First, there were crabs scored from my Leigh Street boys and eaten on the wrought iron table in the backyard with Mac, then back to the Bijou for the equivalent of French New Wave 101, first with "The Red Balloon" and followed by Truffaut's "The 400 Blows."

I know it probably sounds like I was cheating on the Afrikana Film Fest, but I'd already seen "Miles Ahead," tonight's main feature, and, frankly, my film history could use some basic French classics like these two.

Bijou co-founder James explained that the Bijou planned to "show some dog films to show you how a director got to a certain point," asked for a show of hands of who hadn't seen tonight's (me and quite a few others) and let the films speak for themselves.

"Just remember," James said after the first film. "The Bijou is a place where you can come see balloons die." It's also where a friend complained about all the distraction of people rattling their popcorn bags during the film.

It's a lot of things, so remember that instead.

Filmmaking aside, both were intriguing looks back at the landscape of Paris and France in the late '50s and given my trip there a couple months ago, I was wide-eyed, looking for familiar buildings and street signs.

Aching glutes aside, it had been a pretty wonderful day.

But the night wouldn't have been complete without that afterparty and I managed to arrive shortly before 9th Wonder took over DJ duties and proceeded to absolutely kill it for the next three hours.

When he took the stage, he looked out and said, "Let's move these tables outta the way to get things going. We're gonna be dancing."

The man was not lying.

A favorite couple came in, danced a bit and headed home, waving as they threaded their way through the crowd. I stayed put near the back where it was slightly cooler plus I could dance in place and survey the room.

From the stage, the MC suggested we meet our neighbors and find out what their favorite film had been this weekend, but my neighbor hadn't made it to anything except the afterparty. But my next neighbor over had also seen the documentary, making for lively conversation about how it had impressed us and how thrilled we were for the rare DJ experience to follow.

Then there was the music, most of it unfamiliar to me while the rest of the room knew every word to the samples and full songs he played.

But the room went electric when the first few strains of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, soon to be followed by MJ and Prince and eventually, even the Eurythmics, before returning to what I didn't know but could dance endlessly to.

Eventually, my fellow documentary dork came over and asked how I could go to the film, hear 9th speak and not be in the center of the dance floor where he was.

It was like he thought I was doing something wrong. Like d in his message to GOD.

The Afrikana Afterparty is where you come to dance wherever you want to.

Learning the Hard Way

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood because the Bijou has opened.

If you want to get technical, it opened last weekend but I was out of town for Chaplin's "Modern Times," the inaugural offering. So after a friend's dimly-lit birthday party in the Gypsy Room at Vagabond, I walked down a few blocks to the Bijou.

But not before convincing doubters to eat torchon (without sharing that it's made from pig head), hearing vacation tales of the wonder of U.S. territory Puerto Rico (no currency exchange! no language barrier! a rain forest!), ingesting more rockfish rillettes than I care to admit and listening to the Denver transplant mock-whine about the local Broncos obsession and the abundance of pot shops and over-priced apartments out there.

Headed up Broad, I was looking forward to checking out the Bijou's new digs, which turned out to be the perfect starter space: small, simple and complete with bar and popcorn (two bags, no judging, please).

When I walked in, vinyl was playing on the turntable, there were two men clad in seersucker blazers despite Labor Day already being in the rear view mirror, and a growing crowd was filing in with a few familiar faces thrown in for good measure.

Even better, I was told that the earlier screening of "Miss Sharon Jones!" had sold out. See, Richmond, there's your proof we really did want a small arthouse theater showing repertory as well as new films. I, for one, am tired of reading reviews of wonderful but obscure or small films in the Washington Post, knowing full well they'll never play Richmond.

Happily, the Bijou is changing all that.

The film center's founders spoke briefly, including a mention about how film is truly meant to be experienced on a  big screen with strangers, a sentiment I support wholeheartedly and am mocked for regularly.

The documentary covered the period after Miss Jones found out she had stage two pancreatic cancer, underwent surgery and chemo and was nursed back to health so she could go back to singing, but it also included plenty of impressive live footage from before and after her illness.

I only saw Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings once, back in May 2010 at Maymont, and it was a helluva show given the towering musical talent of the band and the force of nature personality of Miss Jones. Even six plus years later, I can clearly recall the way she worked the crowd up into a dancing frenzy, never letting up herself...and she was also singing the whole time.

Of course, even without the cancer angle, her story was film-worthy. How does a singer who's been told by a record executive that she's too old, too black and too short (side note: how many men get told that by record execs, hmmm?) for success manage to have her first hit at age 40?

Major talent and sheer determination. A band that's as close as family. Divine luck.

After the film, I strolled down Broad Street chatting with a couple headed to their car. Like me, they'd really enjoyed the documentary, but unlike me, they'd never seen her live and wanted to hear every detail about my experience.

A block or so later, they asked if I was walking home and when I said yes, if I would like a ride for safety. I assured them I was barely six blocks from home, so I'd be just fine.

Besides, they're missing the point. With the opening of the Bijou, there's one more reason to attract people to the neighborhood, more to do once you're here and yet another formerly vacant storefront is knit into the fabric of Jackson Ward. Score!

So, yes, Bijou Film Center, I will happily be your neighbor.

I Was There and I'm Told I Had a Good Time

I can always count on my neighborhood to deliver.

Walking up Henry Street just after 8:00 on a Friday evening, I hear the sounds of chanting and a drum. Here come the anti-Trump protesters down Marshall Street, not in lock step, but in solidarity against the racist white man running for President and the rally he's staging a few blocks east.

It's pretty catchy.

No KKK
No facist USA
No Trump!

I don't hesitate to stop and chant along in accord and one of the marchers brings me a flyer about destroying white supremacists like Trump and his ongoing campaign demonizing Blacks, Latinos and Muslims. I spot the drummer from No BS Brass band among the protesters carrying banners and signs.

Behind the marchers is a cadre of VCU bicycle cops and a young white one rides over to greet me. "How are you, ma'am?" he says in a smarmy tone, as if he assumes I'm as disdainful of the march as he apparently is. Just fine, I tell him.

Nodding toward the marchers, he rolls his eyes and condescends, saying, "Just another day in the neighborhood." I roll my eyes in return and walk away without saying a word.

I revel in living in a place where people make their beliefs known in a peaceable way capable of inspiring others. I've marched in parades in J-Ward on multiple occasions, a fact I'm proud of.

A few block further at 1708 Gallery, people are gathering for the Bijou's pop-up members' screening, noshing and sipping. Talk beforehand centers on how the Bijou is moving toward weekly events, both first-run and repertory and how they'll make a point to screen on 16mm and 35 mm whenever possible.

I consider that essential for the Bijou since there are now so many people who have no sense of seeing movies on actual film.

Tonight's first 16 mm film, Truffaut's "Les Mistons," introduced me to the beautiful Bernadette Jouve and, predictably employed the most important trope in a French film: a woman riding a bike in a dress, a  fact I've gleaned from years of attendance at the French Film festival.

It was decidedly French in attitude, as when when the lovely Bernadette asks her lover what he feels for her and he responds, "A brutal physical appetite."

Not a bad answer.

Perhaps most interestingly of all, there were many occasions where the actors spoke and no subtitles were provided, a decided difference from today's inane captioning of every grunt and moan.

Also shown on 16 mm, "Mouseholes," by Helen Hill used 1999-era handmade animation and voice-over spoken by her dying grandfather in the hospital for a moving tribute to the man.

The main event was the Richmond premiere of "Chekhov for Children," by Sasha Waters-Freyer, the title referring to a group of kids in NYC's P.S. 75 who rehearsed and produced Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" in 1979 as part of an intensive arts program targeted at specific schools in the late '70s and early '80s.

Sasha explained that she'd been the student director of the production. Hello, for my one and only school play, I'd been chosen student director, which some thought was a waste since my dramatic nature had earned me the childhood nickname "Camille" with my Dad.

What she wanted to explore was how she'd grown up thinking that that experience, as well as the many films the school's students produced, was perfectly normal.

Only as a an adult did she see that having 10 and 11-year olds interpret the dark, adult viewpoint of Chekhov was not a typical rite of childhood passage.

The documentary was fascinating for the amount of archival footage she had to work with as well as the conversations with her fellow students, now grown up. Everyone credited the program and the play with making them feel like their possibilities were limitless.

Seeing children deliver heavy Chekhovian dialog with passion and adult weariness was startling. One little girl credited her emoting to dealing with her parents' divorce and the sadness that had caused her.

That's some deep stuff.

But they also felt like the production itself, not performing it for an audience (although they did that, too with a nearly 2 1/2 hour production at a real theater), was the point. They were doing it for themselves and the experience, a wonderful thing to teach 5th graders.

Fittingly, we heard a lot from the teacher who'd conceived the project and loved Chekhov.

Let me tell you, I was eating up this film's subject with a spoon. It was a sterling example of what the Bijou will mean to Richmond by having a small theater that shows this sort of film - the kind that never plays here or a classic piece of cinema like the Truffaut or even an artistic gem like the Hill film - week in and week out.

With a bar, I might add.

My great regret was having to leave before the Q & A period to meet friends because I'd have relished hearing more from the director about her original experiences.

Instead I revisited my own childhood, albeit not as a member of a Chekhov production, First up was presenting myself at Belmont Food Shop to meet two couples who'd just finished dinner and after minor chit chat, we strolled back to Holmes' house for a listening party.

"This album is so good I'm going to listen to it for the rest of my life," he announced, piquing everyone's (okay, my) interest.

The CD in question was the Monkees' latest, "Good Times!" which was intended as a commemoration of the band's 50th anniversary and something I somehow hadn't even read about.

The music was striking for how spot-on Monkees-like it sounded, not like an update or interpretation of their sound, but simply like a long-lost record had been unearthed. What was cool were the collaborators: Ben Gibbard, Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne, Noel Gallagher, Rivers Cuomo and Paul Weller.

But the one that made us melt into teen-aged puddles was "You Bring the Summer," sung by my favorite Monkee, Mickey Dolenz and written by the fabulous Andy Partridge of XTC.

The three-minute gem is a practically perfect pop song.

We listened to the CD straight through twice, marveling at how good the songs sounded, how fortuitous it was that they had an unreleased Davy Jones track they could add backing vocals to and a Nilsson demo that Mickey could "duet" with in true Nat "King" Cole style.

They even included - wait for it - an unreleased Boyce and Hart song and as every girl who was ever Vice President of the local Monkees fan club knows, a lot of the Monkees' '60s hits were written by that songwriting duo.

Wait, it gets better. Calling into my local radio station to request the Monkees' new single, "Pleasant Valley Sunday," I'd been instead put on the line with the in-studio guest that day: singer Bobbie Gentry. Sure, I made small talk with her, but all I really wanted was for them to take my song request.

Of course, no kid would have time to listen to pop music if they were busy studying their lines for a Chekhov production.

Sounds like I got the childhood I was supposed to have.

Hey, Legs!

I'm no actor, so it's best if I put decades in between my acting jobs.

Back in college, a filmmaker friend roped me into playing the lead in his film "Druid" and I was predictably awful, hardly a surprise given I'd never acted before, unless fake tears to get sympathy from your mother count.

Yet despite my poor emoting, he put me in his second film, although eventually I figured out that he also wanted to date me so perhaps that was partly responsible for his casting decisions.

In any case, fast forward to this week and I get a message from a friend asking me to be in a crowd-sourcing video. I agree because I believe in the cause, but I also warn him that while I have many talents, acting in front of the camera isn't one of them.

As he put it, "We will be coaxing a fine method acting job outta you! Oh, and we have a prop for you."

When I ask if I can hold said prop in front of my face, he responds, "Not a chance!" but when I ask if they can just shoot my legs, he agrees. "That could be arranged! You have admiring fans behind the camera after all."

So I show up on Broad Street, appropriately clad, at my appointed time, ready to embarrass myself for the sake of the cause, only to learn that more than my legs will make the final cut.

And the coaching begins. The angles are worked out, cues are explained to me and we have the scene mapped out. Sorta, anyway.

Taking a cue from the opening of "Saturday Night Fever," I start walking down Broad Street, with the camera beginning on my feet and panning up my legs, only to be reminded by the director that I should be strolling rather than my usual fast walking.

This is not my usual M.O. I stroll poorly, just ask my slow-walking friends.

We do this five or six times until everyone's happy with it, then move on to the actual interactive part of the scene, where I see James, nattily dressed in a brown plaid vest and pants, fedora on his head, and stop and have a conversation with him.

He teases me into the scene. "Okay, what's your character, who are you, what's your methodology?"

Um, I'm a Jackson Ward resident who loves seeing movies old and new in public places, especially my neighborhood? Bingo.

We work out the dialog and shooting resumes. This is where I'm reminded of those other acting roles decades ago and that's the endless repetition of shooting scenes, first from this angle, then from that, with the camera in his face and then in mine, from behind, as I spot James, as I sit down.

Part of the action involved me handing him a $50 bill with Groucho Marx on it and this is where my method acting resume comes in, or at least, the method to my madness.

As we're sitting at an orange table in front of Candela Gallery, I slide the bill just under the hem of my skirt, so when I have to reach for it, we're back to my legs. The crew loves it.

I consider this little piece of brilliance a far greater contribution to the filming than anything I actually say on camera. Of course, it, too, is filmed repeatedly.

"That's the money shot!" the director yells with gusto.

And that's a wrap. Let's just say I'd have made a terrific silent movie actress and leave it at that.

What's the Difference?

Richmond was even cooler than usual tonight.

That's because the Bijou was hosting the premiere of "Entertainment," Richmonder and director Rick Alverson's latest movie, at the Byrd Theater. It was yet another well-chosen fundraiser on the Bijou Film Center's cinematic path to their own building.

Any way you look at it, it was a big deal for us to get the film shown here before it premieres in New York City. How big? So big that even headline hog Joe Morrissey and his baby mama got a babysitter and showed up for it.

As did more DJs and musicians than you could shake a stick at, plus curators, wine geeks, servers and photographers I knew.

Alverson doesn't make easy movies, but Richmond is enough of a film town at this point to nearly fill up the Byrd with enthusiasts happy to check their expectations at the door (as Bijou co-founder Terry Rea suggested) for a surreal take on one man making a life - just barely - as a comedian.

Not that much is funny beyond his screechy, nasal voice, and certainly not his material. "What's the difference between Courtney Love and the American flag? You can't urinate on the flag." See what I mean? Princess Di jokes and Crosby, Stills and Nash gang-banging jokes weren't any funnier.

But that was the point.

Watching this hapless man trek through the desert on his way to one seedy bar, jail or community center after another, we see him underwhelm audiences (except maybe his cousin, played by John C. Reilly), leave desultory messages on his daughter's answering machine almost daily and explore the monochromatic landscape.

And by explore, I mean go on a tour of an oil field, inspect the rusting remains of an overturned vehicle, visit an airplane graveyard or assist a woman in a public bathroom give birth. It's hard not to appreciate how determinedly anti-Hollywood Alverson's movies are.

There was a restlessness to tonight's audience or perhaps that was just the sounds of people being made uncomfortable by a story unlike any they'd seen before. Watching the comedian navigate his sad and lonely life before losing it completely at a celebrity party was challenging at times, but challenging in the best possible way.

That only made seeing it more compelling, because chances are, this is one that'll end up a cult classic. Watching human despair is not your typical movie-going experience but sometimes, it's moving to be exposed to that for the sake of a truly different film.

If scoring the premiere of an important up and coming director's work and exposing Richmond film fans to a true indie movie (there are no gimmes or easy answers in this one) is what the Bijou Film Center will be all about, Richmond's film-loving set ought to be wishing they were doing a fundraiser a month until they get their building.

In the meantime, we should be bragging to any and all NYC friends about what we saw in Richmond tonight. We were entertained and challenged by one of our own.

No joke.

Burning Bush

All movies, all the time, that was today.

After this morning's flick, I had a late afternoon meeting about the new Bijou Film Center project. As a devoted fan of movies shown in public settings, I'd been asked to join the group that's steering the effort to create a small repertory arthouse theater in Richmond.

At Anchor Studios, a handsome, high-ceilinged space with massive gold-trimmed columns in the arts district, I admired the artsy clutter - the piles of old 45s (Curtis Mayfield, Little Stevie Wonder, the Delphonics), the 7-Up rack intended to house green-bottled soda but instead a storage place for art supplies, a sewing machine and dress mannequin, before the brainstorming session began.

I'm new to this group, although I'd been asked to join some time back. It's just that meetings usually fall on Sundays, a day I almost always have plans. Over PBR and snacks, we discussed the next screening, how to get people excited about it and, by the end, whether Neil Young was the most important member of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young or not.

From that cultural debate I went on to Strange Matter for more film, albeit of a slightly trashier vein. With John Waters coming to town in a few weeks, the screening of his oeuvre was beginning tonight, and truly, where better than at a gritty venue like SM?

Truth be told, I was a little bummed when I walked in because usually when Movie Club Richmond shows a film there, the front row is lined with old recliners. Not so tonight, it was nothing but the usual sturdy tables and chairs, so I made do with a front row table.

The bartender tried to regale me with the pasta special with vegan meatballs (vegballs?) but all I wanted was a cheeseburger with carrot/radish/apple slaw to accompany 1981's "Polyester," which I wasn't entirely sure I'd seen before.

"Pink Flamingos"? Living in Maryland, so naturally I saw it when it opened. "Female Trouble"? I think so. "Hairspray" and "Serial Mom"? Definitely.

So I definitely knew Divine, the cross-dressing male actor who pretty much defined Waters' early films. Just wasn't certain about "Polyester."

Part of the movie's place in cinematic history is that it used "Odorama" cards to enhance the experience. Wouldn't you just know that the Movie Club contingent had brought a sole Odorama card for us to experience the smells of the movie?

To my great regret, it was sniffed by one person, passed on to another and the rest of us never saw it. Not that I don't know what a rose or passing gas smell like, but it's been too long since I scratched and sniffed.

The movie even began with a fake scientist explaining smell and how the nose works - "You may experience some odors that are repulsive" - in case we weren't sure. Numbers flashed onscreen throughout, alerting the cardholder which number to sniff.

1980 was stamped all over this classic with relics such as Gaines burgers dog food (the ones that looked like hamburgers), aerosol deodorants and blue refrigerators with crocheted happy face ornaments on them, proof this wasn't long after the smiley face "have a nice day" era.

Slutty daughter (who aspires to be a go-go girl at the Flaming Cave Lounge when she's not reading "Farrah's World") wears skintight satin Lycra pants and Dad (whose secretary and mistress sports Bo Derek-like braids) yells at punk-looking son, "Why don't you let that hair grow? You look like a fruit!"

That's right, 1980, when we scolded teenaged boys for not growing their hair long and shows like "Family Ties" portrayed ex-hippie parents having to put up with Republican spawn. The times, they were a-changin'.

Of course, that's all besides the typical John Waters' staples: alcoholism, divorce, abortion, masturbation, fetishes, you know, the usual occupations of suburban Baltimore.

When son Dexter returns rehabilitated after a stint in jail, he's upset at his mother's alcoholism since Dad's departure. "Are you still drinking? Mom, you could stop it. I got off the angel dust."

And when she does dry out and finds love with a handsome, Corvette driving stranger, he's the kind who romantically tells her, "Let me kiss away your DTs, honey." A girl (or even a girdle and bra-wearing man like Divine) couldn't ask for a much better boyfriend.

You see, children? It's not hard to be normal.

That lasts for about a hot minute in "Polyester." In a John Waters movie, you always know that normalcy is illusory. See one of his films young enough and you stop seeking it altogether.

Not sure, but I think that may have also been the overarching theme of "Farrah's World."

Cuckoo Clocks Aren't Swiss

Richmond, you did right by the cinema gods again.

Who knew there were enough people left in town over Labor Day weekend to fill up the Byrd Theater and far too many still to fit into New York Deli for the afterparty?

It didn't hurt that the Bijou crew - the folks on a mission to build a small arthouse theater here - had chosen a brilliant movie, "The Third Man," to lure people away from grills and backyard drinking for a good cause.

As my friends can attest, I'm notorious for not having seen enough classic films (partly because I don't watch films on TV), but I was far from the only one. An awful lot of hands shot up when the question was asked, "Who hasn't seen this film?" and from behind me, I hard a man react, "Wow!"

Obviously, I'm not the only one lacking in vintage film viewing.

My excitement about the screening had me inviting lots of friends to the event and then spotting even more at the theater, on the streets, in line. Clearly Bijou people are my people.

The evening began with friends Pru and Beau at Metzger for dinner, chosen for its non-proximity to the Byrd Theater. I understand the appeal of park once, party twice, I really do, but I'm also sage enough to anticipate every Carytown restaurant being mobbed as a result of that thinking.

Not for us the crowds. In fact, we were the first customers in Metzger, soon plowing through a bottle of Anton Bauer Rose (because Austrian wine before a movie set in Vienna, duh), a cheese and charcuterie board (let's have a moment of reverence for the orgasmic triple-cream Brillat Savarin), smoked tomato soup, pastrami smorrebrod (the horseradish quark a highlight), Arctic char and the heirloom tomato tart, all set to a soundtrack of my favorite vintage soul (the reliably fabulous Mr. Fine Wine).

But once in Carytown, the mellow vibe vanished and I soon heard my name called from a passing car. It was the scooter queen and her beloved in search of a bite before the Psychic TV show at Strange Matter. In fact, I knew several friends who'd chosen music over movie tonight.

That's a first world problem, choosing between a classic Brit film and an experimental Brit band. We've got it so tough in Richmond.

Once in the line to get in that snaked along Cary Street and around the corner down Colonial Avenue, the parade of friends began in earnest: the movie club mastermind, the theater critic, the conga player with his violinist wife, lots of WRIR volunteers, a favorite guitarist and doughnut lover, the former neighbor, the bass player, the A/V expert. All the cool kids.

Inside the theater, it was all energy and excitement as people found seats, spotted friends and settled in for a classic film. After raffle drawings (I didn't win), info from manager Todd about the Byrd's fancy new projector and an introduction about the film, we finally got to the beautifully restored version of "The Third Man."

From the opening frames - with the completely unique credit "Zither music by Anton Karas" - the film was a thing of beauty with atmospheric shots of post-war Vienna making it look like alternately the most romantic place on earth and the most seedy. Harsh lighting and dramatic shadows reigned supreme.

An unabashed fan, I've read plenty of Graham Greene's works -"Brighton Beach," "The Heart of the Matter," "The End of the Affair," "The Quiet American, "Travels with My Aunt" to name just a few - yet I'd never read this one, making it all the more appealing for not having a clue where the story was going.

The beauty of it was how well executed the script and performances were, sucking in the audience completely. No one plays the alcoholic American quite like Petersburg boy Joseph Cotten.

It's for exactly that reason that I love going to the movies and experiencing a film with strangers. The shared experience of watching a story unfold, getting to know and like (or abruptly dislike) characters, the moments of tension and surprise shared with others around me is, in my opinion, the whole point of watching a movie.

For that matter, tonight's screening perfectly demonstrated why the Bijou Film Center is precisely what Richmond needs. There are far too many of us who haven't seen important movies like "The Third Man" or for those who have, only on small screens at home. No, thank you.

That's not a movie experience and it's nothing like what director Carol Reed was striving to accomplish with this film.

It's about the shared experience of hearing someone behind me react, like when the cat snuggles up to a shadowed man's feet and the guy behind me whispers, "Oh, my god, it's Harry!" or when the affable Sergeant Paine is killed in the sewers and a woman nearby couldn't help exclaiming, "Oh, no, not him!"

Won't it be cool when the Bijou has a regular location where we can have these kind of shared film events week in and week out?

It's going to take all of us to make it happen and hopefully sooner rather than later. Given last night's sizable and enthusiastic crowd, I don't see any reason to think it won't.

In the meantime, it was a hell of an offering to the cinema gods.

Barrels of Fun

Okay, kids, it's time to get on board with the Bijou.

Today's event at Hardywood - bands, movies, magician and raffle - is the latest fundraiser to help get the upcoming Bijou Film Center up and running so that those of us devoted to the movie theater experience will have a place to see not only films that don't make it to Richmond, but repertory film as well.

This is huge for someone such as me who doesn't watch movies at home.

So I enlisted a music-loving friend to spend the afternoon with me for a good cause. Like me, he's got no use for beer, but he was game anyway. This was for the good of our film future.

Little did he know how hot Hardywood would be.

Red Hot Lava Men, a band I knew of but had never seen despite their 18-year history, absolutely killed it with their distinctive brand of instrumental surf rock, shredding guitars and pummeling drums. Even more impressively, they did it in white dress shirts and ties.

Midway through their set, Bijou's instigator James took the microphone long enough to clarify, "Dancing is permitted." Plenty of people, myself included, were already dancing in place, but it looked like not enough beer had yet been consumed and no one had the nerve to take to the dance floor. Yet.

From where we stood, it was easy to gauge the room's temperature as I saw small sweat spots on people's backs (especially the WRIR crowd standing right up front) increase in size, sometimes becoming two sweat stains, sometimes just one large sweat amoeba.

The music was that hot.

When the band finished, the crowd called for them to come back and they obliged with an encore, one last reminder how much I dig this music.

During the break, our attention was called to what was going on in the back with one of the guys from AV Geeks, who was transferring old Super 8 and 8 mm films to digital. Glancing over, I spotted a guy in '70s-looking gym shorts onscreen, just the kind of historical artifact that needs to be saved for the sake of future generations.

Key here is that that's a service the Bijou will offer once they find a building and open.

"You wore the right dress for the occasion," a friend said of my tissue paper-thin bright yellow cotton dress with Indian-style bead detailing. "I wore this linen shirt for the same reason." I pity the fools who didn't take their attire into account today.

By then the tasting room was oppressively hot, so we took a break and went outside in the sunshine, which baked us but allowed us to breathe more easily for a bit. It's not the heat, it's the humidity and all that rot.

We slipped back in time to grab stools and watch Charlie Chaplin's 1916 short film "Easy Street," where he helps clean up the streets of bullies by becoming a policeman. Of course he wins the girl in the end, too. It was an interesting version because it had music and sound effects, so not the original I'm guessing.

Waiting for the next band to start, we saw the crowd increasing in size with the gallery owner, the filmmaker, the history buff, Mr. High on the Hog himself and the baker. Even the juvenile set came ready to listen with kids wearing colorful earphones and ear plugs to product their intact hearing.

Spotting the woman in front of me using a fan to maintain her cool, I complimented her wisdom in bringing it today. "No accident, I keep three in my purse all summer long. I never go anywhere without them," she shared. Brilliant (note to self).

The Happy Lucky Combo took the stage with accordionist Barry looking particularly dapper in a straw boater, a gentleman's best topper on a summer-hot day, introducing themselves to first-timers (although how that's possible, I can't imagine) with a song, "We're the Happy Lucky Combo."

Introductions out of the way, the moved on to a raucous song about Manchester called for obvious reasons "Dogtown." My friend leaned over to inform me that there's a Manchester AA group called "Dogtown Drunks" and my hat's off to them with a sense of humor like that.

With songs such as "If I Were a Rich Man" and "Jellyroll" and untold songs that sounded like tavern drinking songs, the Combo soon had the dancers the Lava Men hadn't. A toddler swayed side to side next to a wooden barrel while the Man About Town shook a leg with the artistic director of a local theater company. The band called him out from the stage, much to his delight.

He came over to say hello afterwards, explaining away his dancing bent saying, "Everyone should have an Agent Cooper," which meant nothing to me until I glanced at the chalkboard to see it was a 12.2% dry-hopped imperial something or other.

"They should have a nap room in the back after that," he suggested then reconsidered. "But that would probably lead to things."

Turns out he wasn't the only one feeling the wrath of Agent Cooper. One of the Combo's singers mentioned he indulged in beer infrequently and had had one, too. Knocked for a loop, he was.

"I think we should do a beer song," one of the other musicians said and they cobbled together "Roll Out the Barrel" to the audience's delight. There's a reason their name mentions happy because it's the effect they have on audiences.

By the time their set ended, "it" band and next on the bill Avers, had arrived and the crowd had again doubled in size, understandable given their talent pool.

But I've seen them on more than one occasion (and will again, of course) and my friend was beet red and sweating from every pore, so we made our way back to his car discussing all the VWs we'd both owned over the years. He trumped me with having had a Vanagon plus his Cabriolet had caught fire at a gas station, but losing my Squareback on the Beltway because I'd never put oil in it was a close third.

He apologized for being so overheated we needed to leave, but I was well satisfied with our afternoon supporting the Bijou, listening to live music and watching cartoons and silent films. No, we didn't win any of the raffles, but we supported something that will make Richmond even cooler than it already is.

Bring on the Bijou Film Center and I promise never to leave a movie early. I may need to pull out a fan, but I'm in it 'till the end.

Picture That

If there's anything tonight proved, it's that Richmond is not only a photography town but a film town.

Both intersected in Carytown tonight for the Richmond premiere of the Oscar-nominated documentary "Finding Vivian Maier" about the Chicago street photographer whose 150,000+ negatives weren't discovered until after her death.

I know I wasn't the only one who'd been wondering since last March if the documentary would ever play Richmond. And goodness knows, I was one of the scores who first saw a small part of the cache of Maier photographs online a few years ago and marveled at this unknown woman's eye and talent.

Like so many fantastic events that happen in Richmond, this one got its start in my neighborhood, Jackson Ward, at the only photography gallery in town. Gallerist Gordon wanted to bring the film to his Candela Gallery, hoping to draw maybe 40 artsy types. I can assure you I would have been one of them.

Seeing assistance to make it happen, he went to the film-obsessed guys who are trying to get the Bijou - a small 100-120 seat repertory theater - up and running here. They saw the potential to not only bring the film, but use it as a fundraiser for both the Bijou and Richmond's landmark movie palace, the venerable Byrd Theater.

That event alone would have made for a terrific Sunday evening, but things kept growing. Soon an after-party was planned with local legends Chez Roue planning to play their next-to-last show in Richmond at NY Deli immediately after the film.

Then Gordon arranged to have a dozen or so of Maier's prints on loan from a gallery in NYC for viewing at Portrait House before the screening. All of a sudden, it was all Vivian Maier, all the time. Or, at least, for 7 1/2 hours tonight.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world despite temperatures that felt like 11 degrees and the cruelest wind I can recall in years.

After meeting a friend for dinner (and a discussion of the word frigid and its now almost archaic use to describe women), I made a detour to Chop Suey Books to use a birthday gift certificate to pick up a new book I'd seen a review of last week. "1965: The Most Revolutionary Year in Music" sounded like just my kind of read and luckily for me, they had a copy in stock.

Book in hand, it was on to Portrait House where we were eager to see Maier prints in the flesh. The place was mobbed with others just as eager, so we waited our turn to get close enough to Gordon for him to flip through the large-format matted photographs, each as riveting as the last.

I don't care if this woman worked as a nanny for 40 or 400 years, she clearly had a photographer's eye.

Once we'd seen them, we stepped aside to allow others in for a viewing. In the back, we met a relative newcomer to Richmond, here only a year since moving down from Pennsylvania, and almost giddy with excitement about tonight's film.

The funny part was, he hadn't known about it until this morning when he'd seen a flyer at Globehopper while scoring coffee. I'd bought my ticket weeks ago so as to be sure I didn't miss out. And here we both were, equally thrilled about it.

Given the biting wind and frigid temperatures, it was far from the ideal night to have to stand in a line that ran to the end of the block and around the corner, but with no choice, we made for the end of the line. I soon heard my name called and a favorite couple (he's a photographer and she's a student of pop culture) appeared to join us.

For that matter, once we made it inside, the number of friends I saw was overwhelming. It seemed like everyone was at the Byrd tonight: history geeks, print-makers, prickly types, DJs, authors, Romans and countrymen.

Turns out there were 900+ people crowding the Byrd and overflowing up into the balcony. That's a nice chunk of fundraising and a solid testament to the community's interest in the film.

But the weather and wind had taken its toll not just on my freezing legs but also on the loading door behind the Byrd, which had blown off during a screening of "Annie" earlier. Richmond, we just don't do winter well.

Before the main event, they showed "The Critic," an Oscar-winning Mel Brooks animated short from 1963 with enough hilarious dialog to get everyone chuckling at his commentary about art and modernity.

I think I knew going in that I was going to be fascinated by the documentary because I could have been happy watching an hour and 24 minutes of just her photographs. But listening to the people who employed her as a nanny and the now grown children she'd watched just provided additional reasons to find the story so compelling.

How could she have been so driven to take thousands of pictures without making an effort to have them shown? How would she feel about her pictures being shared now? Why did she hoard newspapers? Was her pseudo-French accent an affectation?

For a documentary dork like me, as many questions were raised as were answered and that's fine, too.

Afterwards, my friends went home and I went next door to NY Deli to hear Chez Roue for the last time. It was packed in there, but the music was rollicking and everyone eager to talk about what we'd just seen.

Sharing a film in a public space has always been the bedrock of the American film experience. No one will ever convince me that watching a movie at home with stops for bathroom breaks and food runs is anything like a genuine film experience.

Which is exactly why we need the Bijou. I don't want to just read about amazing films, I want them to have a place to play in Richmond where I can watch them with 100 or so of my closest strangers (or people I know, I won't discriminate).

Because if 900 people come out on a blustery, nearly sub-zero work night to see a documentary about a dead nanny with a Rolleiflex, we are most definitely a film town.

Full Moon over Phantogram

What happened was I won.

One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.

I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.

When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.

The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.

Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.

Tucked  away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.

The simplest of parks. A field.

Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.

Benches are for park amateurs.

We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).

The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.

But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.

We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.

It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.

To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.

At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.

It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.

I found his learning curve endearing.

Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.

"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."

We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,

A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.

Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.

"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."

I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.

Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.

Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.

The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.

Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.

"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."

Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.

Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.

Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."

In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.

And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.

A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.

We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.

They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.

All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.

Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.

They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.

Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.

Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.

The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.

They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.

Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.

Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.

And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.

We call that a winning evening.