French Kissing in the USA

You know what the difference is in walking on the beach and walking down Broad Street?

When there's sand underfoot, no one asks you for a light and when you say you don't have anything, calls to your back, saying, "You know what? That's okay because you look good."

In all likelihood, I looked sweaty since it was far hotter and sunnier today than it had been at the beach for the past four days and I was not adapting easily. Funny, I have no problem transitioning to the beach when I arrive from the city, but not so much in reverse.

The transition to worker bee was only slightly less arduous as I hunkered down to produce 1500 words on chefs, another 700 on a filmmaker and finally prepare questions for tomorrow's two interviews, leaving my chair only to eat and relieve myself.

A far cry from beach life, that's all I can say.

Of course it's all geared to meeting deadlines before leaving on vacation again Thursday, so every bit of it was well worth it.

Heck, tonight's date even revolved around trip preparation, with a stop at DSW for somewhat stylish walking shoes (and a mild anxiety crisis over whether to choose form over function) and another for life essentials, where I ran into a restaurateur who agreed that all the cool kids head out for Monday night Target shopping sprees.

That helps explain why I had no idea this was a thing.

Dinner at My Noodle & Bar was by far the most pleasant part of the day, perched in the middle high booth so we could look down on others (literally and figuratively) while enjoying tempura shrimp and vegetables before I hoovered a plate of broccoli and chicken as if I were starving and hadn't been eating non-stop at the beach for a week.

Despite guide books, legal pads and good intentions, planning amounted to no more than an acknowledgment that the only plan is to fly by the seat of our pants.

Do I have enough black? Why don't I own more scarves and jewelry? Which cute shoes will give me the best mileage? Is a trench coat as essential as I've been told? How much bonne chance can it take to make this chick chic?

I've got no idea and two days minus a road trip and a rewrite to figure it all out. Sans lighter, it'll be enough if I can match today's Broad Street assessment.

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.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Of course I was going to take my daily walk despite the piles of snow on sidewalks and streets.

The logical thing seemed to be to clear off my car before walking and I had just begun sweeping the powdery snow off it when I heard a man's voice behind me. "Can I dig out your car for you, sweetheart?" A neighbor, snow shovel in hand, had shown up to do the hard part.

Snow had drifted halfway up my tires so he got busy removing that as well as the piles of snow the plows had pushed up against my car, effectively imprisoning it in a snowbank.

He'd already ventured out in the world, informing me while he worked that Broad Street was completely clear and Marshall Street semi-clear but that the side streets were a disaster. He wanted me to start the car and sit inside while he toiled, but I couldn't live with myself if I was warm and seated while he worked on my car.

Once he'd moved a whole lot of snow, I drove my car in and out of the parking space a dozen times to pack down a path to make it easier to leave later. "Too bad you can't reserve this space when you leave," he said. Too bad is right after all the work he'd done for me.

I thanked him profusely for his assistance ("Happy to do it for you, sweetheart") and my knight in shining armor headed inside to warm up, shovel over his shoulder.

Not me. I intended to explore the neighborhood and see what had been wrought in the snow. Jackson Ward's creative residents have been known to craft some spectacular snow sculptures (including far too frequently snow penises) when we get this weather and I was curious to see what might be out there.

Although Broad Street itself was cleared, plenty of the sidewalks weren't yet or were still in the process. One guy was using a snow blower (who knew anyone around here even had one?) to clear a parking lot between two buildings in the Arts District. I found that out by accident as I walked by and felt a flurry of snow being forced in my direction.

It was quieter than a Sunday along Broad Street with only occasional small groups of people at bus stops. I saw one guy trying to navigate the snow-crusted sidewalk in a wheelchair and helped him over a particularly difficult ridge of snow.

Someone had crafted a small snowman complete with twig arms and smile in the unlikeliest of places: in front of the Marriott Hotel near the curb facing the hotel. In front of a bank of snow at the Library of Virginia, someone (presumably Monica) had written in the snow, "Petersburg, A Stop by Monica." I have no clue what she meant by that.

As I approached the National, I saw a guy get out of his truck and go up to the box office window, tapping on it. Surely he didn't think anyone was in there and I said as much to him. Shrugging, he said he'd been hopeful. I had to know what show had motivated him to come out in this weather for tickets.

Get this: the Buckeye Country Superfest in Columbus, Ohio, a two-weekend country music extravaganza. And you're trying to get tickets for that here, I asked incredulously. "Well, this is a Ticketmaster, so yea," he said as if I were an idiot.

Needless to say, he got no tickets since the National was closed up tight.

Coming back toward home, a guy passed me and smiled, saying, "Lookin' good, Boots." For the record, I didn't have on boots, but I appreciated the thought.

Few places were open beyond Steady Sounds/Blue Bones Vintage and a convenience market; very few had even bothered with a sign, probably presuming that no one would even try to stop by. The bead shop's read "Closed for inclement weather" but I had a feeling that it had gone up yesterday before an early closing.

But of course Nick's Market was open. I can tell you that the people coming out of there, bags of subs and chips in hand, looked mighty happy or maybe that was just unadulterated gratitude. If I hadn't just made a batch of chili yesterday, I'd have gone in myself.

Instead, I went home to get out the snow shovel and clear my front steps and sidewalk somewhat before the temperature drops to 14 degrees come darkness. Now that this lapsed Catholic and my car can escape tonight to celebrate Mardi Gras, I wanted to ensure a path back into the house whenever all that ends.

My beads and I aren't going to want to navigate snowy steps in the wee small hours of Ash Wednesday, I can assure you.

Walking the Eve

It's Christmas eve in the city.

Stepping outside in my neighborhood, I find it a ghost town because so many of my neighbors are students who have fled to the bosom of family for the duration. Sure that there will be activity on Broad Street, I decide to walk it down to the Boulevard.

Looking to see what's open provides a fascinating snapshot of Richmond consumerism. The treasure trove that is the Richmond Book Shop is open, highly unusual for them before 2:00. I've already shopped there twice for presents this season, so today I just wave.

As I cross Lombardy, a man calls to me, "Has your husband told you today that you have the sexiest walk around? I've been watching you since the corner! Merry Christmas!"

My first Christmas compliment.

Enigma Tattoo is open for your last minute tattooing and piercing needs. So is Ahmed's Barber Shop, although the middle eastern man (presumably Ahmed) staring out the front window looks bored to tears with not a single customer looking for a haircut.

Lee's Chicken is understandably doing a booming business, while Arby's not so much. The drive-thru line at McDonald's is around the building.

There's a steady stream of customers going in and out of Pleasant's Hardware, no doubt because they carry almost anything, as Richmonders have known for generations.

I'm surprised to see that the Science Museum is open with people coming and going, although it makes perfect sense. What a wonderful way to amuse little ones on a day that stretches interminably for them?

Along the way, I come up behind two homeless men ambling along, the one telling the other, "CVS is a long way off, friend." I happen to know it's less than a mile at that point, but I pass them rather than saying anything. When I pass them on my way back east, they still haven't made it to CVS yet.

The street vendor at CVS looks bored, his wares covered in plastic because of the rain. I feel bad for him if he's trying to make some last minute Christmas money, so I smile and say, "Happy holidays!"

"Merry Christmas, baby!" he says with a mile-wide grin.

Back at you, Richmond.

Step in Time

Along with the decline of the art of conversation, chivalry and western civilization, let's add in parades.

Because they sure ain't what they used to be.

Admittedly, my only frame of reference is the annual Christmas parade, which I see every year as a take my usual morning walk the first Saturday in December. I could walk another route, but why not take in this harbinger of the upcoming season?

The light rain didn't seem to diminish the number of people patiently waiting along Broad Street and it certainly didn't affect the number of food vendors selling crap to children before 11:00, but it did crowd things a bit with so many umbrellas and canopies set up.

I never saw the pathetic Rudolph balloon that wore a Bandaid over its leak the past few years but I did see what looked like a several new balloons, although I wasn't much impressed with the fruitcake or Strawberry Shortcake versions.

When the handlers of the Tweety balloon tried to lower it to go under the traffic lights at Allen Street, they scraped the balloon on the ground for so long that a man behind me warned, "Step back! They're gonna pop that thing!" Instead, I just kept going.

My favorites were the Black Gum Saddle Club riding their steeds down the street and the Wells Fargo carriage looking just like the little metal banks they used to give away. The two Harlem Globetrotters I saw were working the kids on the sidelines magnificently, thrilling them with attention. That was impressive to see.

And, sure I can appreciate a good marching band or ten, although baton twirlers in pink Santa hats don't do anything for me.

When a school's corps of cadets went by, an older began yelling at them to step it up and look sharper like his corps used to do. "Get to it!" he instructed.

But what galled me about the parade was the number of people participating in it with no regard for their role. If you're going to be on a float, you should be waving, not texting.

Just as bad, if not worse, were the people marching in the parade on their phones. I'm sorry, children are sitting on cold curbs in the rain to see a parade - maybe their first or maybe a very big deal to them - so you are like a character in a play or movie to them.

And you don't break character by being on your phone.

No, you should be totally in the moment of the parade or not in it at all. Can't we at least leave the phone alone long enough to give children a Christmas parade memory that doesn't involve watching people look at their screens?

A parade should be about the here and now. Look at me, sounding like  the Grinch of Christmas Past.

Meanwhile, I'll go back to obsessing about the death of artful conversation...

Of Trunks and Batons

It's hard to resist a parade when it deposits itself practically at my doorstep.

Leaving for my daily walk, I head south toward Broad Street, just like I do most days.

Today, I am greeted by an inflatable Snoopy, fist ducking under the street lights on the west side of the intersection and then rising to his full height in the middle.

It's still not all that high, but then this is no Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, either.

As I walk west on Broad, the parade is coming right at me with marching band after marching band from distant counties.

Just how early do you have to get up in Northumberland County to be here for a 10:00 parade?

Baton twirlers dressed in skimpy costumes throw, catch and occasionally miss, but their lipsticked smiles never waver.

The SEAL Team has a float and a cadre of OCD-looking people marching and probably wishing they were carrying logs or something.

One of the highlights is the River City Rollergirls, one of them carrying a sign saying "Seasons' Beating" as the they skate madly around her, attired in bright colors and knee pads.

My vote for most lurid entry in the parade is the partially-inflated Christmas tree, its brown trunk looking way too phallic as it wavered between full and flacid, and angled at the crowd below.

There were the Christmas Mothers doing the beauty queen wave from car dealerships vehicles.

Finally Santa came in view, accompanied by what I have to assume was the Snow Queen, although she looked young enough to be his granddaughter.

Mrs. Claus, take note.

Once himself had passed, the parade was over, so since it was time for me to turn around, I joined the gaggle of street vendors following the parade downtown and still hawking their  cheap, Chinese-made wares to a crowd of mostly families.

Cause nothing says Christmas parade like an inflatable SpongeBob Squarepants balloon on a stick.

And lots of Krispy Kreme donuts.

Didn't someone say this is the most wonderful time of the year?

Twirl That Baton

Who knew Fred Flintstone would be so enduring a character?

Every year the Christmas parade overtakes my daily walk, providing countless opportunities for me to wonder, pet, judge and laugh at what I see.

And the first balloon I saw was the 51-year old Fred Flintstone, a little limp in the extremities and not flying very high.

I am in awe that a cartoon figure a half a century old is still a viable part of our parade.

Kids know Wilma and Barney and Pebbles? Who knew?

I gave high points to the couple who each brought a ladder instead of chairs on which they perched to see over the heads of others.

Rudolph, the joke of last year's parade after he did a slow deflate, was right up front with a big Bandaid on his head.

I couldn't decide if that was funny or pathetic.

Lots of dogs were in attendance, but I only bothered to stop for beagles, tapping strangers on the shoulder to ask if I could touch their dogs.

One guy began to remove the beagle's sweater, saying, "My wife put this thing on and it looks stupid."

Well, yes, considering beagles are hunting dogs, a sweater is a bit much.

I saw lots of tiny babies being held up to look at the parade, as if they had any understanding of it.

One mom was doing a voice-over, pretending to be the baby talking, while dad shot the baby's face in close-up.

Really.

As I turned away from the parade route to go the two blocks home, I saw the perfect symbol of parade aftermath.

A big wad of pink cotton candy laying on the street with an obvious gray footprint on it.

Time to go home, kids.

Not Afraid of a Sardine

I go to dinner in the Fan and wind up chatting with a Jackson Ward neighbor. Funny how that works out on a Monday night.

When I got to Bacchus, not a soul was at the bar, although all the booths and several tables were filled, but not for long. People must have arrived early, because many were out the door by 8:30. School night, don't you know.

My server was busy, but I assured him that I was in no rush, which seemed to put his mind at ease. I started with a glass of the Graham Beck Sauvignon Blanc while trying to decide what I might want to eat.

Most of the people I know who frequent Bacchus do so because they have a favorite dish which they order every time they go. I'm just the opposite; I go in hoping to see what's new on the menu and that's what I order.

Once it was wild boar meatballs; another time it was sugar toads. Both times, most of the people around me were eating pastas with their favorite of Bacchus' rich sauces over it. To each his own.

After the third time my server came over to see if I'd decided yet, I felt it best to throw him a bone. I ordered the salad of julienne Belgian endive and Granny Smith apples with Gorgonzola. An extremely generous mound of what looked like white matchsticks arrived shortly thereafter.

This simple combination was one of the most creative and decadent salads I've ever put in my mouth. The bitterness of the endive set off the richness of the Gorgonzola. The crispness of the apples and endive was the perfect vehicle for the creaminess of the Gorgonzola.

The julienned nature of the salad was a bit difficult to get on my fork at times. but I was richly rewarded with every bite. This was salad nirvana.

Enjoying my wine afterwards, a girl came in, recognized me and said hello. We'd first met a year ago at the restaurant where she was then working. Since then, we'd met in the neighborhood because she lives a block from me. It was nice to finally have company.

Her fiancee, a chef, was feeling under the weather, so she'd come out to eat and bring back food to him. Luckily for me, she was not in a hurry, so we began chatting while she drank her wine and waited for her dinner.

I finally went ahead and ordered my next course, the fresh fried sardines with tomatoes, capers and pepperoncini. It was exactly the kind of dish I'd come in hoping to find.

To my surprise, my server told me, "It's one of the least ordered things on the menu. I like it, but people are afraid of it." Well, I certainly wasn't and my friend said her chef fiancee would be downright envious when he heard he'd missed sardines.

As well he should have been. Four of them were lightly fried and set in a deep bowl with the cooked tomatoes, capers, pepperoncini and then mesclun to the side. I loved how well the acidity of the tomatoes worked with the fried fish.

Once we'd both finished the eating portion of the evening, we could relax into the wine and chatty part. We discussed the Hippodrome and the improvements over on Second Street, the friendliness of both of our long-time neighbors and the need for more neighborhood restaurants.

Turns out that she and the chef are actively and eagerly looking for a spot in J-Ward to open their own restaurant; this was news I was thrilled to hear.

With the addition of each new place within walking distance, there are a) more options for the First Friday and Landmark/The National-bound crowds, b) more reasons for outsiders to make the Ward a dining destination and c) more places for the neighborhood to choose from and support our little corner of RVA.

The J-Ward Girl part of me is bursting with excitement at the prospect of yet another great culinary addition to my beloved 'hood.

I promise not be afraid of anything on the menu. Cross my heart and hope to eat.

Letting the Parade Pass Me By

The true meaning of Christmas parades must have changed while I wasn't looking and nobody told me. Given that naivete, there was no way I could have been prepared for joining the festivities on my morning walk along the parade route.

Truth be told, I wouldn't have even remembered that the Christmas parade was today except that when I went to open my living room shades, Clay Street was abuzz with cars of people unloading.

In fact, directly out in front of my house was a bus of fatigue-clad military guys, one of whom was directing traffic around the bus. Ah, yes, happy holidays and welcome to the (khaki) parade.

So when I set out for my daily constitutional, I knew it would be with a jingle-bell view. But who wouldn't get a kick out of seeing parade marshals the Harlem Globetrotters coming down Broad Street?

I'm even enough of a traditionalist that I marvel at watching baton twirlers throwing their batons impossibly high in the air and then somehow catching them mid-step.

I can appreciate a good marching band (or ten), admiring their high stepping musicality and snappy uniforms. The giant balloons don't impress quite like the ones I remember from the Macy's parade, but we're no NYC, either (the reindeer with the smooshed-in face was particularly unfortunate).

But when did Christmas become all about fitness? I was flummoxed to see the Navy Seal Personal Training group as part of the parade. Their float featured recruits "riding" bikes and waving their toned arms, as if to say, "Come sweat with us at 4 a.m.!" Um, no thanks.

Since when did the Triathlon Training Team put on the red and green and shoehorn themselves into the parade? And if anyone's answering questions, what's Christmasy about Dominion Chevrolet driving new vehicles with giant "Red Tag Event Sale" stickers in the parade? Is that supposed to be a gift suggestion?

Flagrant sales tactics aside, the funniest part of the health contingent joining the Christmas parade is the concession group that accompanies it.

Between here and the DMV, I could have bought cotton candy (okay, that's probably parade food), chili-dogs, Krispy Kreme donuts by the dozen and even a marked down grilled cheese (was $3, now $2!). No child left behind, though: every tot had a soda in hand.

And speaking of children, it seemed like the parade brought out the worst parenting imaginable. One Dad walking his little person through the crowd of adults slammed the kid into a chair and then yelled at the confused kid for not watching where he was going.

Another parent trying to effectively discipline pointed at St. Nick's approaching float and screamed, "There's Santa, so you'd better watch it, boy!" Some day we will license people to become parents, like we license dog owners.

After reaching the end of the parade route, I turned around and walked back with the end of it. The vendors had formed the final group and were loudly trying to hawk their leftovers to the crowd busy packing up. "Candy apples, cheap!"

A lone man carried a banner aloft: "Life is short. Eternity is not. R U ready?"

I feel sure I am, as long as eternity isn't like an endless Christmas parade of fit Seals and car salesmen.

View from the 8th

When you walk the same general route for four years, you end up with regulars. People in the area start by waving or saying hi and some of them move on to actively engaging you in conversation because they see you so often. After a while we know a fair amount about each other for being merely street acquaintances.

Garrison was one of those. Early on, he'd always ask about my garden because the only place he'd see me besides walking was in the front yard. When I moved, it turned out that we were neighbors even closer and day after day his face was one of the first I'd see when I set out to walk.

After a while of just talking, he started teasing that he was going to start walking with me. Sometimes he'd even catch up with me and say, "Here we go," take a few steps and turn around. "You're too fast for me," he'd say, laughing and going home.

At the beginning of the summer, I ran into him and he said he'd moved to a high-rise on Grace Street. He invited me to stop by and see his new apartment which was right on my daily route, but the timing was never right.

When I left the house today, I could tell something was happening. Belvidere was backed up past 95 and cops were blocking and directing traffic. Parts of Broad were shut down and vendors were out. Turns out today was the VUU Homecoming parade from 10th and Broad to the Lombardy campus.

It actually made things easier for me because of the re-routed traffic. When I got over to Grace, though, it was unusually busy for a weekend morning due to the detouring of cars. And as I walked by, Garrison spotted me and yelled from across the street, "When are you coming up?"

Now seemed as good a time as any. I went in and had a computer take my photograph and personal information; I suppose it was so that the police would have a starting point if he hacked me up while I was upstairs. Kidding.

Taking the elevator to the 8th floor, we exited to a picture-perfect view of the parade on Broad Street. From that high up, and since we were only a block south, we had an excellent view of the marching bands, decorated vehicles and assorted other groups high-stepping it down Broad.

Even better, from his south-facing apartment, I was treated to a lovely panorama of Richmond rooftops stretching almost to the river. First was Franklin Street with all its late 19th century variations in rooving styles, domes and steeples and beyond that the smaller rooftops of the surrounding area.

I stood there picking out familiar places from Monroe Ward to the Fan and admiring the bird's-eye view perspective, so rarely seen in RVA. Garrison is already so accustomed to the view as to be blase about it.

I babbled on about how lovely it must be with snow or even rain falling and he agreed, but with none of the enthusiasm I was feeling. I teased him about not deserving a view he doesn't fully appreciate.

"Call me any time you want to come back and see it again," he said.

I told him I'll wait to enjoy it until he shows some appreciation for what he's got...or the first snowfall, whichever comes first.

Ogle Here

I was barely two blocks from home when I passed one of my neighborhood regulars walking toward me. "You're late," he accused. "I had a late night," I explained. "Tsk, tsk," he chided, brushing one index finger against the other. "Bad girl." Who needs a mother when I've got strangers for my moral compass?

Standing at a bus stop was an old man and by old, I mean nearly bald with a couple of white wisps of hair, coke-bottle glasses, obvious dentures and leaning on a walker.

"Good MORNING," he shouted at me and I answered in kind. "You LOOK nice IN shorts!" he yelled in that overly loud way that hard-of-hearing people have of putting the em-PHAS-is on the wrong syl-LAB-le. But it's good to know that age doesn't prevent a man from ogling.

And maybe it's new and maybe it's not, but today was the first time I noticed the red "EAT HERE" sign with a white arrow pointing down, high atop the front of BoDillaz Quesadillas, a popular student eatery on Broad. It's so far up the building that I'm not sure who's going to actually see it, but I got a kick out of a sign that looked straight out of a low budget '40s movie.

I'd like it even better if it flashed on and off at night. You know, "EAT" followed by a moment of awkward darkness, and then "HERE." Sort of like the way the old guy yelled.

Smartasses Abound

Tiny sign at face level on a shop window near Broad and Laurel:
"DON'T COME IN! Pressing your nose against the glass is the best way to see what's inside."
Sarcasm as marketing tool.

Around a scattered mess of french fries on the Grace Street sidewalk, someone has drawn a pink circle in chalk and written "Cry for the fries."
Empathy for the death of a late night snack.

Walking down Hell block, a guy shouts at me, "Girl, you walk your ass off every day!"
"Not trying to walk it off, just walk it better," I yell back.
"It's already f**king great. Maybe you better stop!" he advises.
Stop? And miss out on daily pleasure like these?

No time soon.

Eat! Look! Stay Away!

Do people who walk on treadmills realize the great stuff they miss by not hitting the streets?

Like a guy waiting at the bus stop wearing a t-shirt that instructed: "Take your vitamin every day. It's called a STEAK!" Can't you just hear the self-righteousness implied in that statement? It would have been so much better if the guy in it had been a skinny little sprout-eating vegan wearing it for ironic reasons, but judging by the guy's girth, I think he meant it.

Walking down one block of Broad, I saw a guy approaching his truck notice me. He stared. Had I grown two heads? He went to open the door of his truck and fumbled because he was still looking at me and not the lock. He dropped his clipboard and stared some more. As I walked by him, I straight-up asked, "Did you get a good look?" Without the slightest evidence of embarrassment, he smiled and said, "Yea, I did. Thanks!"

But today's highlight was a handwritten sign on the door of Velocity Comics that was as much a statement of philosophy as a warning: "No soliciting! I am ridiculously happy with my current whatever!" If they'd been open, I'd have gone in to meet the sign-writer. Since I don't get solicitors because I live on the second floor of a locked building, there's no point in a sign like that for me.

But just for the record, I am ridiculously happy with my current whatevers, too. My only complaint would be the one whatever absent from my life. Should I ever get it, my ridicuous happiness will be complete. I might even put up a sign.

Walking the Brick Carpet

I got a late start on my morning walk today, which meant finding shade on Grace Street was going to be challenging.

I resorted to walking the less-scenic Broad Street because the taller buildings were still providing shade late in the morning.

Walking west on Broad from Belvidere, the wide sidewalks are bisected by a ribbon of brick, but only on the blocks that have VCU property on them.

For no particular reason, when I'm on those blocks, I have a tendency to walk the brick walkways rather than the more even and smooth concrete.

I never gave it a second thought until a tall, handsome passer-by noticed.

Him: Look at you, baby, taking up that whole brick sidewalk.

Me: (smiling guiltily because I am smack in the middle of it)

Him: And you know what, you deserve every bit of it! (smiling back)

Guilt assuaged.