Victim of Circumstance

You know it takes a lot to lure me to the suburbs.

But that's exactly what I did when I headed to Chesterfield County in rush hour, during a thunderstorm and why? Because Modern Richmond was opening up a 1978 house originally designed by NOVA architect Joseph Boggs. And while Northern Virginia in general makes my skin crawl, I admit I was curious to see the house.

Besides being honored by the American Institute of Architects not once but twice - in 1978 and again in 2012 after a renovation - I was intrigued at seeing the state of modern architecture at a time when my top priority was college and clubs and not necessarily in that order.

Translation: I wasn't paying attention to residential architecture being built at that point and now I am.

Just as I was overcoming my distaste for the entitled-feeling neighborhood and the lackluster houses in general, I came to the one in question. Situated into a one acre lot that rose much higher in the back, it at least had character that I hadn't seen in other houses I'd passed.

Right away, I gave it points for the fish pond in an island in the driveway and the fact that the concrete walkway had been poured with an opening for a large, existing tree. Inside the house, I was struck by the large expanses of glass, the abundance of skylights, vaulted ceilings and clerestory windows (so Frank Lloyd Wright, but what did I expect?).

Standing near the kitchen, I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I don't know about those windows," referring to the rectangular windows located between the counters and the kitchen cabinets. "I'm good with them," her husband opined and kept walking.

Looking through one of the large expanses of glass - the windows were a mixture of the opening kind and not -  several of us spotted a Mama deer and two babies just behind the plastic playhouse in the elevated backyard. I guess they have lots of nature in the county.

A narrow, carpeted spiral staircase seemed dated, but I gave it a few points for how it reminded me of climbing a lighthouse because of the extremely tight fit making my way up and down. At the top was what seemed to be a playroom with toys on shelves, although a full box of rolled up blueprints indicated otherwise. Bookshelves contained books on Gaudi, Impressionism and Frank Lloyd Wright, the latter no surprise.

After having been through a lot of Modern Richmond houses old and new over the years, this one fell somewhere in between the distinctive mid-century styles and the lackluster creativity of newer modern construction we've seen. Vintage details like cypress tongue and groove paneling on walls and ceiling certainly elevated this one.

I couldn't stay to hear the current owners talk, but on the way out, I ran into a gallerist I know coming up the driveway and we immediately bonded over the schlep from the city (she's in Church Hill), agreeing that the suburbs are not for us.

Happy to be headed back to my natural habitat, I made a bee-line for the Byrd to meet Mac for another pre-code movie from 1933, just like last week. This time, it was "Baby Face" with a young Barbara Stanwyck. In the introduction, Byrd manager Todd told us that this was a very salacious film for the time in that it showed a woman taking control of her own life. "nowadays, we call it reality TV," he joked.

Granted, she did it by sleeping her way to the top long before Madonna was a gleam in her Daddy's eye, but, come on, it was the Depression and a woman's options were limited. Except that the story used a kindly cobbler character to introduce our heroine to Nietzsche and his theory that all life is exploitation. He tells her to exploit herself by using men to get what she wants.

You never saw an Erie, Pennsylvania girl get the hang of using men so fast, resulting in fur coats, an expensive apartment and lots of bling. Along the way, one of her ex-lovers kills her present lover and then himself, so that gets a bit messy, but our girls keeps going anyway, landing a job in Paris and, ultimately, the grandson of the bank's founder. He's smitten and sends her a note at work: "Pick you up at 8. We are dining and dancing." A bit blunt, but a solid plan, if you ask me.

But it's still 1933, so ultimately, she tells him all she really wants is for it to say "Mrs." on her tombstone (aim higher, honey!), so he marries our little go-getter.

This pat Hollywood plot twist is how the studio placated the New York board of censors before it was allowed to screen there. Even so, he winds up shooting himself (this girl was rough on men's hearts), but he lives so there can be a happy ending.

You want to know how happy? He told her he wanted to buy her a house in New York City and one in Paris, which means she'd never have to live in the suburbs.

Now, that's true love, Nietzsche-style.

Strike a Pose

The best thing the Byrd Theater ever did - besides installing new seats - was going thematic.

I used to be such an occasional Byrd-goer. I mean, other than "It's a Wonderful Life" every Christmas Eve, I mostly went to the Byrd for film festivals - French, Environmental, whatever. But all that changed once they started doing a different theme every month.

Hello, variety, we Geminis love to mix things up.

You better believe I got on board with that. I saw my first Miyazaki film, "My Neighbor Totoro," as part of Miyazaki Mondays, also discovering how many Miyazaki film fans there are in Richmond. I did a month of Hitchcock movies because you can never see too much Hitchcock on the big screen. Currently, I'm going to see their "Pre-Code" series showing films made before the Hays Office came up with their Puritanical production code and began dictating morals to moviegoers.

Hell, I even put up with kids and a 10 a.m. screening to attend one of their Family Classics, though it's not likely I'll do that again.

So when I saw the Byrd was doing Mon-Gays, a month of films about LGBTQ lives, I naturally wanted to go. The director of the Afrikanna Film Fest always said that she screened films made by blacks "for blacks and black-minded people." I like to think that Mon-Gays are intended for gays and gay-minded people.

And I'm one of them.

Tonight's offering was a queer fairy tale, unexpectedly done musical-style and complete with scenes of young people dancing and vogueing to bass-heavy music and you know I loved that. The sensitively-told story of Ulysses, a black 14-year old boy trying to figure out his sexuality and identity, was all the more engrossing for the many trans actors used in the film and it's not often you see that.

Some of the early scenes were especially painful to watch because they involved Ulysses being bullied at school by the jocks, who mock him, call him faggot and deposit his gym suit in a toilet full of urine. His salvation arrives in the form of Saturday Church, a once-a-week community program for queer young people and where for the first time he sees LGBTQ people able to be themselves.

It's life-changing. It's enough to make a boy start vogueing as he walks down the street and eventually buy himself a pair of studded stilettos to catwalk in.

This means that later on, when the same jocks who've been ridiculing him for ages do it again, he's in a different head space. Rather than feel intimidated by them, Ulysses blows them off with a vogue-style kiss as he glides past them down the hall at school. Yaaas, queen.

Appropriately, the audience at the Byrd erupted in cheers and applause.

Not all of the story was so life-affirming, particularly several scenes after he ran away from home because his crazy Christian aunt was beating and berating him for who he was. But the overall tome was sweet, making for a strong film with low key charm and a major message: just let everybody be who they want to be.

For me, that's a black-minded, gay-minded independent film lover who's a familiar face to the concession staff.

No shame in being a Byrd regular.

A Firefly Never Forgets

I had a new recruit today, but not in the war between Freedonia and Sylvania.

Okay, not so much a recruit, per se, but a friend who'd been trying to schedule a walk with me for months, maybe even over a year by now. Problem was she broke her foot and that took a while to mend and then the fellowship that spawned a video filmed at the Bay of Fundy opened at the ICA and then another film project debuted at the Depot...you get the picture.

It was beginning to feel like it was never going to happen and then she reached out and we had compatible mornings free and we finally walked together. And on a gloriously cool June morning, too.

Naturally, I led her right down to the river, knowing full well that our chances of getting on the pipeline were nil. Two days ago, the only way I'd been able to get on it from the Brown's Island side had been by scrambling over a boulder and then propelling myself forward onto the pipeline and we'd had even more rain since then. It was much worse today with the entire western end under rushing water, but I wanted her to see it anyway.

We compensated by backtracking, taking the canal walk and picking up the pipeline walkway from the eastern end. I knew she "got" it when she marveled, "It's like walking on water."

Yes, indeed, that's exactly what it's like.

Since she'd already taken a yoga class before she met me, by the time we came off the pipeline, she admitted that her legs were feeling the walk. I've no doubt they felt it even more on the next part, which is a series of hills back up to Broad Street. Rest assured, since this was our first shared walk, I made sure to point out interesting things urban, historical, artistic and natural (she was thrilled that we saw two great blue herons) along the way as a distraction.

"You're part trainer, part field guide," she marveled. I'd call that one of my more unique compliments.

And if I was cheating on Mac walking with another woman, I made it up by meeting her at the Byrd to watch four Jews trying to get a laugh. And lest you think I said that, I can assure you that was Groucho Marx's response to those who questioned the political significance of "Duck Soup."

And while he denied it, Mussolini banned the film from showing in Italy because he thought it was an attack on him. I have to say, the anti-Fascist message came across as pretty timely in 2019 as well. Sadly.

Waiting outside for Mac to arrive, I saw guy after guy approach the box office to get a single ticket. One guy cracked wise, requesting, "One for the soup du jour, please." Clearly the Marx Brothers are big with the Y-chromosome set.

Mac and I had barely settled into our seats when a very tall man sat down in front of us, scrunched waaay down in his eat and turned to ask us if he was blocking our views. We politely said no, all the while wondering why he didn't sit somewhere he didn't have to scrunch. I mean, his legs were almost under his chin. When Mac returned with popcorn and Milk Duds, he began making crazy motions with his hand, then got up and left, never to be seen again.

You can always count on a little weirdness at the Byrd.

Manager Todd began the evening by asking if seeing "Duck Soup" tonight would be anyone's first Marx Brothers movie and, amazingly, about a dozen people raised their hands.  When he asked who was a Marx Brothers fan, easily half the large crowd roared back in affirmation.

One fun fact he shared was that "duck soup" used to be slang for something easy to do, news to me.

The movie began with a screen reading, "NRA Member. We do our part," followed by the Paramount logo. Kind of disturbing, but maybe not so much in 1933.

I've got no idea when I last saw "Duck Soup" but my best guess would be in college. Back then, my boyfriend and I were very into Woody Allen and it was common knowledge what a huge Marx Brothers fan he was. So I had no memory of what the film was about, although it came back to me as the film progressed.

Interestingly, one of the seminal scenes, which Todd had mentioned, was the mirror scene where Groucho and Harpo mime each other as if they're looking in a mirror. Long before I ever saw "Duck Soup," I'd seen the "I Love Lucy" episode where Lucy does the same thing with Harpo even though it took until college to understand the reference.

Okay, so Lucy and Harpo weren't the first to do it.

One of the most charming parts of watching the movie unfold was the reaction of the children in the audience, who laughed uproariously at so much of it. The scenes of Chico and Harpo taunting the lemonade stand guy - setting his hats on fire, putting their feet in his vat of lemonade - sent them into fits of giggles you could hear throughout the theater.

As a trainer and field guide, it was the puns and word nerd humor that set me off.

Mrs. T: Notables from every country are gathered here in your honor. This is a gala day for you.
Groucho: Well, a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.

Let's face it, laughing at the Marx Brothers is duck soup.

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

...or, how I wound up in a stranger's sweatshirt.

It's not like I didn't check the forecast before I left the house. I did: partly cloudy all day, but little chance of rain. Instead of doing my usual river walk, I opted to walk west, drop off my rent at my landlord's house and continue the two blocks to the Byrd Theater for a morning screening of "Mrs. Doubtfire."

I'm not sure why the Robin Williams classic spoke to me this morning (especially for a Family Classics screening guaranteed to be full of brats), except that I knew I'd be in the neighborhood, I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1993 and the overcast sky made it feel like a good movie morning. It really was that simple.

Crossing the street from Monroe Park to the Cathedral of the Scared Heart, it was obvious something big was going on. Every few feet, I saw a young man in a black suit and clergy collar, usually with family fawning over him and taking snaps. It was like I'd stumbled into seminarians' graduation day at the cathedral or something.

Leaving those crazy enough to devote their lives to a made-up person to their deluded fantasies, I persevered down Floyd Avenue only to have the sky open up on me somewhere after Harrison Street. At first it was just a gentle drizzle, then a shower and before long, a deluge. So that was me, the woman in the sun hat and sunscreen - running in white rivulets down my arms and legs - slogging along the next two miles, dropping off her rent check and lumbering on.

And while it wasn't unpleasant rain because it was warm, I knew that the second I sat down in the theater's air conditioning, I was going to freeze my patootie off. So I arrived with a plan: raid the lost and found for a cover-up to tide me through the movie.

Fortunately for me, there was a pale green men's XXL "Salty Dog Cafe Hilton Head, S.C." sweat shirt languishing in the lost and found and the ticket taker (whom I know from so many Byrd visits) was only too happy to loan it to me for a few hours. In fact, she first gave me the option of a stylish women's sweater, but given that the sweatshirt was thick and as long as my dresses, I knew it would be the warmer, cozier choice.

I also warned her that if it was raining when the movie ended, I'd be "retrieving" (wink, wink) the umbrella I'd left there. She said I was welcome to help myself.

So I remove my dripping sun hat, don the sweatshirt and ask the guy at the concession stand for a bottle of water. He'd noticed I'd come in soggy wet, soaked to the skin, and now he's telling me how lucky I am that I'd left my sweatshirt at the Byrd to reclaim it this rainy morning. Silly boy. I explain that it isn't mine and that I'm merely borrowing it for a bit. "That's pretty cool!" he enthuses.

That's what we call problem-solving, son. Try it sometime.

Then I head off to find a seat nowhere near any gaggles of small children. Taking one, I hang my soggy hat upside down to drip-dry, remove my wet shoes and place the bottle of water in the cup-holder on my right. But when I go to put my ticket stub in the cup-holder on my left, I see that there are already two ticket stubs there from Wednesday's one night only screening of the 1972 reggae classic, "The Harder They Come" with Jimmy Cliff.

That's when I realize that I have chosen the exact same row where I sat Wednesday to see "The Harder They Come" and those are my stubs, which I clearly forgot to throw away. Talk about being a creature of habit. That said, it was probably because of how much I'd enjoyed the reggae film with its unintelligible Jamaican patois that begged for subtitles and fabulous soundtrack that the stubs had been forgotten.

Since I'd never been to a Family Classics performance, I wasn't expecting the classic Warner Bros. cartoon - Foghorn Leghorn battling with a youthful chicken hawk - that kicked off the screening. Just as surprising was the organist rising from the bowels of the Byrd to play a handful of movie themes like "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head" before disappearing again.

So much entertainment on a Saturday morning.

About all I recalled of "Mrs. Doubtfire" was the premise and Robin Williams' vacuuming to Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady." Hell, I hadn't even been to San Francisco yet when I first saw the movie, so that part couldn't have resonated the first time.

Mainly the film was a treat for all the improvisation Williams does throughout and that's not even counting the scenes where Harvey Fierstein is applying his make-up for the first time and they're invoking "Fiddler on the Roof" and Barbra Streisand in what amounts to a comedy routine.

Truly, he was a once in a lifetime genius.

As luck would have it, when I exited the Byrd after peeling off the stranger's sweatshirt and without a "borrowed" umbrella, it was to somewhat sunny skies.

And you know I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining. Nothing's bothering me.

Got Your Pliers Right Here

Turns out I can date a house by its bathtub.

When Mac pointed to the unusually-sized square tub in the bathroom, she guessed its origins were the 1950s. Not so, I suggested, recognizing that size and style from a Northern Neck house I'd recently seen that had an identical tub. A house that had had bathrooms put in by its very rich new owner in 1932.

As a side note, I find it curious that I went a lifetime without ever seeing a square tub and I've now spotted two in three weeks.

Today's square tub was located in an International Style house (Richmond's first, it should be noted) in the Maymont neighborhood. Mac and I had walked by it many time (her especially because it's her 'hood) en route to Texas Beach, the difference being that this time we got to go in.

Thanks, Modern Richmond, for letting us be voyeurs.

As soon as we'd seen what house was being featured, we'd gotten tickets so we could ogle its interior. Like the master bedroom with two walls of windows looking out over the canal and river. And not just any windows, but the original casement windows that opened out.

All I'm saying is, if that was my bedroom, those windows would be open April through October and any 65+ degree day in between.

The house's current owners had combined a mix of old and new belongings. A vintage black telephone like the one in "Dial M for Murder" sat next to a computer screen. The sunny bedroom had a small, VCR TV much like the ones from the early '90s.

Mine was stolen the weekend I moved into my Floyd Avenue apartment, a convenient way to pull the plug.

Walking outside to the deck overlooking the river, Mac ran smack dab into the same stranger who'd been behind her in line at Lowe's in Short Pump last night. When the cashier's two pairs of scissors weren't able to cut the zip tie off the product, he'd offered to get pliers to help her remove it.

What are the chances their paths would cross again so soon? Or ever?

The former garage had been attached to the house and covered at some point, allowing for a raised dining room which could be seen through the windows near the kitchen. The flooring was the same as in NYC subway cars, so incredibly durable, although a pain-in-the-butt to install.The bathroom was drop dead gorgeous with a patterned red and black floor made of ruby glass and amethyst glass.

One of the owners who'd bought the house in 1987 and lived there for three decades gave a talk with lots of dirt about the house. It had been built in 1935-6 by Richmond architect George Edward Hoppe, Jr., an unfamiliar name I knew immediately I needed to go home and research.

So I'm a nerd and a voyeur.

Like how her husband had rented the house for $250 a month before he met her. How he'd finally convinced the owner to let him buy it for $52K in the late '80s - a gentleman's agreement with no actual documentation - only to have someone else offer the guy $92K. How the owner told the higher bidder he'd have to talk to her husband. Now, that's integrity.

During the ten-year renovation ("I now know how to use a Saws-all," she bragged), the couple knew one thing for sure: they were keeping the original windows, a wise move given how distinctive they are (that or the $30K cost to replace them all).

Also, they didn't need George Edward Hoppe, Jr. rolling around in his grave.

One of my favorite features was that while the roof was flat outside in keeping with the International Style, inside the roof was peaked, with beams visible. And although the house had originally been unpainted brick, it had long since been painted white, making for a striking contrast with all the foliage around it.

The couple who owns it now also spoke, gushing about how external feeling the house is during the day with all the un-curtained windows allowing in light and nature, but at night, it morphs into something internal feeling and cozy. Perched on a hill over the river, it was easy to imagine.

He pointed out that all the windows in the living room are at eye height to draw the eye outside. On the sun porch, the windows are at eye height when you're sitting down. Brilliant, George, that's all I can say.

"It's funny to live in a work of art," one of the owners admitted. "But that's what it feels like."

Walking out afterwards to my car, I spotted a friend coming down his walkway. From the screened porch above, his wife called out to me. It was the same couple I'd seen performing in their band last Wednesday at Capital Ale House. Their rock and roll aura was somewhat subdued. She was wearing yellow pants and filling a brand new yellow bird feeder and he was chatting with us about what we'd just seen.

But we couldn't chat for long because even though we'd already made a pit stop at 821 Cafe for a plate of my favorite black bean nachos, we had a movie to see at the Byrd.

Walking in, manager Todd announced, "There she is! Now we can start the movie," his kind of humor. Inside, buttered popcorn and Milk Duds procured, we settled in for 2011 film "Pariah" about a young black woman struggling to come out as a lesbian to herself and her family.

Tellingly, the woman who introduced the film. a familiar face from poetry and haiku readings, gave the most heartfelt of affirmations about it, saying, "Watching this film felt like the first time I saw myself on the big screen."

The movie had premiered at Sundance and won an award for its exquisite cinematography and we didn't have to get very far into it to see why. Add in the knockout performance of newcomer Adepero Oduye who played the woman and I was just sorry there weren't more people in attendance for the sensitively-acted and well-written story.

But then again, I can't worry about what others miss. It was enough to eat, ogle and watch with Mac and get her home at a reasonable hour since she'd been up since dawn. Maybe this is why people tell me they're exhausted being with me.

"This is the best Modern Richmond ever!" I heard a man tell someone on the deck of the Hoppe house. Later, during the talk, he repeated it to the entire room. Can't say that I agree and I've been to plenty.

But it was a fine introduction to a local architect and I'm living proof that that can be life-changing.

Oh, and I'll look up Hoppe, too.

Every Day is Like Sunday

At least I was reassured that I'm a minimalist.

A few years back when I'd first met Beau, Pru had told him I was a minimalist, referring to my small apartment and limited possessions. But on his first visit here, he'd been unconvinced, mainly because I have an entire wall of book shelves.

"How can you be a minimalist with all these books?" he'd challenged me, eyeing my book collection like they were traitors to the cause.

So imagine my satisfaction in going to the Byrd Theater for the Environmental Film Fest screening of "Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things" and hearing Ryan Nicodemus, part of the duo that calls themselves The Minimalists (with attendant website and non-stop speaking engagements) explain that some minimalists do have book collections because those books provide them joy.

Vindicated.

The documentary itself did not particularly speak to me (or Mr. Wright), though, because so much of what its talking heads espoused was common sense stuff. Don't buy into the American agenda that more stuff means more happiness. Duh. Consider the ecological affects of buying and discarding short-time purchases. Well, yea. If a high-paying job means all you do is work and not enjoy yourself, you're not fully living. Not news.

Each of the smiling, beatific minimalists interviewed looked to be white and well-off (and, if they were men, bearded) with great teeth. I don't know what the connection is, but maybe minimalism means more time for oral hygiene.

We stayed for the short film "Reefs at Risk" for the simple reason that since being in Islamorada surrounded by reefs, I'm more interested in them than before. What we wound up learning was that Oxybenzone, a common ingredient in sunscreen, is lethal to coral, which is a living animal that gets stressed, just like humans.

And, man, is it stressed right now.

Turns out coral reefs have declined 99% in the Keys, along with 40% in Hawaii and 85% in the Caribbean. How's that for depressing news?

Needless to say, I came home and checked my sunscreen ingredients, ready to toss anything offensive. I mean, what's the point in going to the Environmental Film Fest if not to feel bad about yourself and hopefully bring about small, personal changes?

Don't answer that.

After doing our part to be informed and more mindful of environmental issues, we moved on to conversation and an extended meal at Max's on Broad, where a new menu had been rolled out a few days ago. Never especially attached to the old menu, I figured it was worth a short walk to see what my neighborhood Franco-Belgian restaurant was offering up.

Besides, that is, our favorite seats all the way at the end of the bar, past where it turns, and behind the gigantic espresso machine. You gotta want it to end up there.

The bartender gave her seal of approval to our choice of a Catalonian Cava and let us take all the time we wanted between courses. It probably helped that there were only a couple people at the bar at any given moment, and they were employees.

We both gave high marks to the onion and carrot-laden beef and farro soup we started with, which was hearty, beefy and perfect for dropping hunks of French bread into to absorb that broth. Surely it was our Irish and Polish peasant stock that made us wish for a vat of that soup and a full loaf of crusty bread.

Next came charred broccoli over French onion dip with salted Ricotta and pickled onions, a dish that tickled every taste bud I had and left me wishing for more. Tuna tartare with grapefruit, lime zest and shavings of cured egg yolk rested on a bed of squid ink, making for a very dramatic presentation. A curly kale caesar salad with shrimp was virtuous enough to justify salted caramel apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.

Sitting by the big front windows gave us a panoramic view of the rain falling on Broad Street and the limited foot traffic out in it. My best guess was that everyone was at home watching Kacey Musgraves take claim to two Grammys.

By the time we finished sipping, supping and talking about past, present and future, four hours had elapsed - nine if you count from when we began with Nate's bagels pre-Environmental Film Fest - and my neo-minimalist apartment called.

You know, the one where I'm currently reading the late Jane Juska's eminently readable "A Round-Heeled Woman: My Late Life Adventures in Sex and Romance." Talk about sparking joy, Mac's already asked to read it when I'm finished.

Because, as one of the beards with good teeth told us today, not every good minimalist has to give up her books.

Don Juan Triumphant

You think you know your town, but really, you only know what you do.

If I'd been asked what the most popular event at the Byrd Theatre is, I wouldn't have paused, I wouldn't have hesitated, I'd have announced with near certainty that it's the Christmas Eve screening of "It's a Wonderful Life." When I began attending the annual event, it had a decent crowd, but that was the mid-90s and since then, it's grown to become a capacity crowd, balcony included.

Such is my dedication to this particular holiday ritual that I've been known to schedule Christmas Eve dinner at a ridiculously early hour solely so I can be in line - a line which eventually stretches down Cary, and around the corner onto Sheppard St. - for "It's a Wonderful Life" over an hour before it even begins.

That said, it never occurred to me when Mr. Wright suggested we take in the Byrd's annual screening of "Phantom of the Opera," the 1925 silent version, natch, complete with live accompaniment on the mighty Wurlitzer, that I was walking into a similarly well-loved event.

As a result of my ignorance, we'd lingered over a leisurely dinner at Greek on Cary, beginning with a bottle of dry, crisp and utterly porch pound-worthy Troupis Moschofilero Rose and some pretty stellar hummus. We'd made sure to arrive early before the dinner rush, although we didn't hesitate to linger well into the evening when nearly every table was taken.

After enough visits to know, I can say I'm a big fan of their stacked, grilled and seasoned vegetables, mainly due to the fig glaze, although the wedge of good Feta doesn't hurt, either. Chicken souvlaki and a chicken gyro also kept us occupied as the rain continued to pour outside and we felt no urgency to move on.

Even walking down the street to the Byrd under cover of a giant umbrella, there was no massive line at the box office to tip us off. But once inside, it was another story, so Mr. Wright went off in search of popcorn while I headed off to find Mac and hopefully seats.

I was just about to my favorite section - not under the balcony overhang, but not in the front third, either - when I heard my name called and turned to see Mac on the left hand side. What are you doing in the old seats, I wanted to know. "There weren't three together," she claimed, but I'd already scoped out three smack dab in the center of a nearby row, even if we did have to climb over some nice people to get to them.

As it happened, those very people welcomed us in saying that they'd saved the seats for us, a kind gesture given that dripping wet people with umbrellas were scrambling over them.

Even better was James, the man seated on my right, who not only welcomed me but struck up a conversation. Seems the Williamsburg resident was there as part of a dual celebration, partly for his 80th birthday and partly for the 85th birthday of the man at the other end of the row, his daughter's father-in-law, which had also included dinner at the Daily.

Add to that that it was his first time at the Byrd and all of a sudden, it was an occasion.

Our conversation meandered all over the place, from how we'd both attended junior high school, not middle school, and how movie theaters used to be known as movie palaces. Pointing out the massive chandelier that is lowered by pulleys to be cleaned, he shared that his church has a similar chandelier, so he knew all about lowering. When I realized that he wasn't aware that the organ and organist were going to rise out of the bowels of the stage, I couldn't wait to see his reaction.

When I finally stopped talking to the birthday boy and looked around, I couldn't believe how full it had gotten, with more people arriving every minute. Then when manager Todd took a poll as to who had come for the annual screening of "Phantom of the Opera" before, it seemed like fully half the room raised their hand. No one needed to know that I'd never seen any version of the Phantom before.

But how had I missed out on such a time-honored tradition?

Although I've seen plenty of silent movies thanks to the Silent Music Revival, this was my first with an organist playing the originally-composed score that would have been played in 1925. The precision timing of the score left me in awe of the composer's ability to provide sound effects and mood music for even the smallest moments in the film.

In what I'm sure was not an intentionally funny choice, every time the ballet dancers scurried away from one scary shadow or figure or another, two of the dancers would run and do a last minute pirouette before rejoining her cowering fellow dancers. It was as if the actresses wanted everyone to appreciate their dance moves even while running scared.

A girl never knows when the right person might see her in action.

And while there were the expected heavy-handed moments given that the movie is almost 100 years old - say, when the Phantom sat down to play "Don Juan Triumphant" once he's captured the girl's interest - the old-fashioned nature of the story - after the Phantom is drowned by a mob, it ended with the lovers on their honeymoon - and the pitch-perfect soundtrack were a big part of its charm.

That's something that scores of people apparently already knew, even if I hadn't. The good news is, if I show up next year, it'll not only be earlier, but I'll be able to raise my hand as a regular.

Even better if my boy James is there celebrating his 81st. We've got a tradition going now.

Betting on Bond

It wasn't just the absence of David Niven, it was the non-stop violence.

When I first heard about the Byrd Theater doing a Bond series, I was excited enough to jot down dates for two films: "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" and "Casino Royale." When I got home that night, I looked up both films to make sure a) they were of the Bond era I enjoy and b) that I hadn't seen them. Bingo, 1969 and 1967 and neither plot was familiar, so both dates went into my calendar.

Next I invited two favorite Bond lovers to join me. "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" may have had everyone's least favorite actor playing Bond (George Lazenby) but the movie was great fun and wildly '60s, so that was a win.

Now imagine my consternation when the day before we're set to go see "Casino Royale," Mac informs me they're showing the 2006 version. Hell, I didn't even know there was a 2006 version, not to mention my complete lack of interest in a 21st century Bond movie.

But I was the one who'd done the inviting, so I felt compelled to sit through what was really an action movie starring Daniel Craig for the sake of friendship and good manners. I could have admitted my error and cancelled the plans, but how petty would that be?

At least there was a fine dinner first. The three of us met at Garnett's, where we were the sole occupants of the dining room. And while each of us has our standard order (farmer's salad, Cobb salad, tuna nicoise salad), a special of BLT with avocado and cilantro aioli caught everyone's attention.

Caught, but didn't overcome longtime habits. Both of my Bond buddies opted for their standard order, while I alone broke bad with the BLT special. Which, I might add, was stellar, mainly because of the cilantro aioli that had been made that morning that elevated the sandwich to something incredibly fresh-tasting. Equally as strong was the soup du jour, a racy tomato gazpacho that has also been whipped up that morning and tasted like a summer day full of tomatoes and peppers.

I don't want to brag, but some of us made the right call. Marble cake with chocolate and white icing - good, but nowhere near as fabulous as the orange creamsicle cake we'd had the night before at the beach - finished us off.

Where I made the wrong call, though, was in agreeing to a movie with more explosions, shootings, fights and destruction of property than all the movies I've seen in the last decade combined. Make that two decades. I avoid action movies like some people avoid subtitled art flicks.

What was funny was when manager Todd was introducing the film and asked if anyone had come expecting to the see the 1967 film with Niven, Peter Sellers and Ursula Andress, because if they had, he suggested going directly to the box office to get their money back. I sat quietly because I was there with my invited guests, but, man oh man, I really wanted out. It only got worse when he warned us that this was a very dark story with a flawed Bond, but also an action movie that lacked the typical Bond gadgetry.

Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.

If, in my typical Pollyanna way, I had to say what I liked about this 21st century Bond movie where bodies stacked up like playing cards and I had to close my eyes through every violent scene (so, roughly 3/4 of the flick), it would be that I enjoyed seeing Judi Densch as M.

The only other redeeming quality, which Mac pointed out, was how well 007's clothes fit him. We're of the shared opinion that there's nothing like a fit man in fitted clothes. Can I get an amen?

Fortunately, there was the occasional humorous exchange to break the tension:
Bond girl: I'm afraid I'm a complicated woman.
Bond: That is something to be afraid of.

Beyond that, nada.

And truthfully, if I'd gotten to see the satiric Bond flick I'd been hoping for, besides David Niven's urbane sophistication as Bond, I'd have seen John Huston as M and that would have been almost as good. Not to mention all the groovy clothes and swingin' attitudes that come with a '60s film.

Afterwards, my Bond buddies insisted I shouldn't have made the sacrifice. They'd both seen it countless times, so they'd have understood if I'd changed our plans.

Forget never saying never again. My new rule is I never need to see another Bond movie made after 1985. Life's too short.

And for mere mortals like me, you only live once.

Hungry Eyes and Blow Monkeys

Okay, so it may not have been the time of my life, but it was a delightful shot of pure '80s throwback.

With nothing in particular to do Monday night, there was no good reason not to head to the Byrd to see the latest installment in their lovers series, "Dirty Dancing," especially since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1987. Add in that I've become nothing but a bigger fan of dance since then and I was actually looking forward to a movie about dancing.

No big deal, right?

At the theater, I soon realized that I was in the minority by a mile. First off, the lobby was crowded and made up of 90% women of various ages. (the bathroom line was out of control).

Standing in line to get popcorn, I heard two women squeal when they saw each other. One said she was there because it was her fifth grade daughter's favorite movie of all time (5th graders like films with abortion subplots?) and the other said that her boyfriend had texted and asked her to bring him dinner on her way home from work.

"I told him I'd be happy to, but that it would be a couple hours before I get there because I just found out "Dirty Dancing" is playing at the Byrd," the other responded. Meanwhile, two women in front of me were sharing their separate experiences going to a "Dirty Dancing" weekend at the resort where it was filmed.

Somehow I'd walked into the cult of "Dirty dancing" without any clue that it even existed.

But when manager Todd stood in front of the crowd to share fun facts about the movie, the screams that greeted him were all high-pitched. It made me admire the token men in the theater all the more. One of the many anecdotes he shared about the filming concerned the filming of the scene where Johnny stands behind Baby, her arm wrapped around his head as he traces his fingers down her body. The fact that she cracked up every time and he got more annoyed with each attempt wasn't scripted, but it was filmed and the director liked the naturalness of the interaction so much he left it in.

Besides, what's love without laughter?

And in his usual inimitable way, Todd signaled that it was time to go to the Catskills by yelling to the projectionist, "Mr. B., please show us all the time of our life!"

From the opening scene, one thing was immediately obvious to me: the film may have been ostensibly set in summer 1963, but everyone looked straight out of the '80s. Big perms, lots of eyeliner, high-waisted shorts and capris. Even the Keds Baby was wearing for dance practice were straight up '80s Keds (take it from someone who wore them then).

But mainly it was the women's bodies, all of which resembled the Jane Fonda gold standard of the era, right down to the tights and leotards they wore. If Cynthia Rhodes had been any skinnier, she'd have been invisible.

But the dancing was a pleasure to watch, even if it owed as much to the '80s as 1963. C'mon, choreographer Kenny Ortega choreographed everything from Madonna's "Material Girl" to Michael Jackson tours and it showed. I guess no one cared about continuity in 1987.

That said, it was refreshing to see Johnny and Baby practicing dance moves in an un-air-conditioned cabin, the sweat lending an especially seductive sheen to their moves. There was life before A/C, kids, believe it or not. Some of us choose to still live that reality.

When Patrick Swayze uttered the movie's most famous line - "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" - the women in the theater erupted in cheers and clapping as if a villain had just been killed. The scene where Baby and Johnny are practicing leaps in the water elicited still more applause and a whole lot of swooning. And you can't even imagine the decibel level during the scene where Johnny crooks his finger at Baby to get her to dance with him.

And you know what? I fell for every contrived and corny moment of "Dirty Dancing," even while judging how overly '80s it was. Sure, a big part of that was ogling Patrick Swayze's bare-chested dancer's body watching Patrick Swayze's hips and legs move as one with the beat of the music, particularly on some of the old soul tunes like "Be My Baby" and "Do You Love Me?"

Did I join the cult of "Dirty Dancing"? I did not. Did I leave thoroughly satisfied at watching talented dancing from three decades ago interspersed with a sweet little love story and corny '80s songs?

Yes, I swear it's the truth. And I owe it all to you the Byrd.

Talking About Soft Stuff

Hello, April. Surprise me, sure, but please don't fool me.

Mac's been at the ocean, I'd been at the river and we agreed that we were overdue to convene and debrief. It was as easy as me suggesting a gangster movie and her having the bright idea to begin with Giustino's pizza and our date was planned.

When I went to pick her up, it was obvious we were on the same hopeful weather page, since we both showed up in open shoes and jean jackets as if it were 70 degrees rather than 55. I blame it on water-focused weekends and our eternal optimism.

At Galley Market, we joined a much older couple eating dinner at the counter, or rather, him patiently waiting while she, hunched over her plate as if it could be taken away from her at any moment, slowly and methodically chewed each bite while staring at the counter.

I came this close to finally breaking bad and ordering something other than the Bianca pizza I've had every other time, really, I did, especially after spotting a Popeye pizza special (sauteed mushrooms and spinach), but I was saved from leaving my comfort zone when Mac ordered it first, effectively guaranteeing me a Popeye sample.

What are girlfriends for, after all?

I'll tell you what, they're for justifying a dessert both of us were too full to eat but nonetheless managed to devour. Walking toward the Byrd, Mac wanted to duck into Sugar & Twine to get a muffin for breakfast, which is where we spotted a housemade "Little Debbie" and next thing you know, we're looking at walls covered in American scene painter J. Bohannon's canvases and digging into our tower of chocolate and whipped cream.

The only downside? No room for popcorn once we made it to the Byrd. Instead, Mac showed me some of the men currently trying to win her favor online and we marveled at how some men have no clue which photos they shouldn't post if they're hoping for a favorable response.

A surprising number of people showed up for a Monday night gangster film. For a change, there was no introduction, no mention at all of today being the first day of Gangster Month at the Byrd or any fun facts about Edward G. Robinson's starmaker turn in 1931's "Little Caesar." We were on our own with a movie designated one of those that must be seen before we die.

Let's see, '30s cliches abounded: every man wore a hat, most used cigarette cases, wore spats, cops were all Irishmen and the death penalty was carried out with a hangman's noose. Absolutely no background music. And love? "Nothing! Less than nothing! Soft stuff." Tough guy jargon.

When the film ended in a brief 79 minutes, we both marveled at how almost cartoon-like it had been. Or, more accurately, how practically every crime movie for the past 87 years owes something (and in many cases, almost everything) to "Little Caesar." From drive-by shootings to personifying firearms, this is the movie that set the template that shaped our notion of gangster films.

"You want me? You're going to have to come get me!"

I wanted Mac and all the shared updates possible. You better believe I'll come get her if it means a night full of girltalk, gangsters and the best crust in town.

Best ever. No fooling.

Pointing No Fingers

Infidelity never looked so good.

By that I mean, the 50th anniversary 4K restoration of "The Graduate" that the Byrd Theater was showing tonight was pristine. I don't think it's looked that good since 1967.

"This is the best possible way you'll ever see this movie," manager Todd told the assembled masses and he wasn't kidding. Never have the various colors of Mrs. Robinson's half slips or the details of her blue eye shadow been so vivid.

I started at Garnett's for dinner only to arrive during prime happy hour (it's been a while since I've seen a pitcher of beer served) and just barely manage to snag the only stool available at the counter.

In the tiny kitchen was the always charming Mac who greeted me by catching my eye in the mirror behind the counter. It was enough to get my attention and a smile from him so I had to assume that the baseball-sized mound of chicken salad on my green salad was his doing.

To my left was a guy eating solo and our server's innocuous inquiry about his day turned into a highly detailed account about his company's move and how they planned to spend $30K on renovations, but then the contractor upped the price to $140K, so the company balked and it was lowered to $100K, but then they demanded a $35K deposit.

Her eyes glazed over even before mine did just listening to him ramble.

It was hardly surprising that there was a sizable crowd for "The Graduate," but I have to admit I was surprised by how many young people were in attendance. I'd have been curious to know how many of them were seeing the seminal film for the first time.

Then, too, I wondered how certain dated details registered with them. Like beer cans with two holes punched in the top because it was the pre-pop top era. Or how Mrs. Robinson wore actual stockings and a garter belt, not pantyhose. How Mr. and Mrs. Robinson had to get married because she got pregnant. How the drinking age was lower, so it was okay to offer a 20 year old scotch or bourbon.

For that matter, stop for a moment and consider that Benjamin's father buys him a full scuba diving suit and accessories and complains that it set him back $200. I overheard a guy sitting behind me say it would be at least $1200 today and even allowing for jaw-flapping, I'm sure it wasn't a cheap gift then or now.

And although the movie had its dated moments (clip earrings, opera gloves, lots of teased hair), it held up beautifully for how it melded the story with Simon and Garfunkel's songs and delivered that most sought after ending of all: true love triumphing.

Sigh. Thank you, Hollywood circa 1967.

From there, I headed to Vagabond for music because I have been out for live music far too infrequently the past few months and I think it's affecting me and not in a good way.

The low-ceilinged Rabbit Hole downstairs was mobbed when I walked in and as I stood in the back looking for a way into the crowd, I spotted a girlfriend all the way across the long bar.

Starting toward her, we met in the middle only to return to her corner for a better vantage point. The first band finished their set and we took the opportunity to catch up because, as she said, women gotta talk and men don't always.

Because her relationship is in a state of uncertainty at the moment, she told me that after crying for 48 hours, she'd resolved to take a deep breath and focus on herself. That means she'd been at yoga before this, as well as cutting back on caffeine and drinking, doing whatever she thought would make her feel good.

And we both agreed that going out for live music always makes us feel good, with or without drinking, which is how we'd both ended up here tonight.

Keyboardist/singer Calvin Brown and his band then took the stage and proved that their brand of soul was just what we needed. The jazz critic came over to join us for a bit while the band began weaving its R&B spell over the room.

Brown had written a song or two about Instagram, "Because that's the world we live in," (causing the critic to joke, "I'm waiting for their song about MySpace"). When the singer bantered with the crowd between songs, he was pleased when people responded.

"I like when you answer me like that. I'm a church boy!" he said to applause before launching into "Cool."

I like when I go out looking for true love and end up letting the music wash over me until I feel good. Sure beats yoga.

Lady Marmalata's Bongos

Turns out stay-cationing is every bit as non-stop as vacationing.

1. Mick, I hardly knew ye
I finally got around to seeing "Yves Saint Laurent: The Perfection of Style" at the VMFA Friday evening, honestly surprised at the number of parents who'd dragged their kids to see a fashion exhibit. "Mom, there's just more clothes in this room, too!" one kid whined.

But what clothes! For me, it was the cultural history lesson that resonated most. The exhibit began back in the dark ages of afternoon dresses, short evening dresses and long evening gowns and moved through the swingin' '60s and '70s with leather maxi coats and sheer pantsuits to clothing that paid homage to art: the Mondrian mini, the Wesselman evening gown and the Georges Braque short evening dress.

Nothing surprised me as much as a black and white photo of Jerry Hall, Mick Jagger and YSL at an event. It wasn't Hall's ruffly swimsuit-like ensemble, it was seeing Jagger with a full beard that stopped me in my tracks.

Why would he ever have chosen to cover up his most famous feature? I'm guessing his vanity won out.

2. Bad luck
When I stopped into Don't Look Back for dinner after YSL, they were in full happy hour mode, meaning there wasn't a seat to be had, but a kind bartender was willing to take my order for shrimp and fish tacos while I waited for a chance to plant my backside.

Happily, my dinner arrived moments after I snagged a bar stool. Chowing down, I asked myself why I hadn't been there in so long when the tacos are so solid and came up with no good answer. Resolved: add more DLB to my life.

Goal thwarted when I woke up the next morning to read that DLB had suffered an early morning fire and is closed indefinitely. Was I the jinx?

3. Making faces, saving democracy
Beau Cribbs and the RVA Tonight crew were hosting a Bongo Beach Bash at the Byrd for those of of us in town and in need of a laugh.

The show involved beach balls, jokes about mayoral candidate Bobby Junes, a nefarious businessman buying up the ocean and a tribute to all the artists who died last year done by the duo of Tomato and Tomah-to.

Then there was local skull-a-day artist Noah Scalin entreating us to be creative (told to find a stranger, create a face out of what was in our purses and pockets and post it, the musician next to me and I crafted one of guitar picks, a nail clipper and a metal straw and then chose not to post it), the head of Virginia's ACLU sharing ways to resist and Mikrowaves as the musical guest (afterward I overheard a quartet's assessment of the band: "They were like Reek Big Fish but I couldn't understand what the words were. I liked it!").

I really don't know how I could have covered more bases in a two hour period.

4. Rocks and rawk
Saturday dawned cloudy and warm, so I led the only guy I know who owns an Ava Gardner Museum hat down to Belle Isle for the express purpose of staking a claim on a rock next to the equivalent of nature's foot bath.

The rolling cloud cover allowed us to linger without burning in the sun while a fierce jet of water pummeled our feet (and occasionally threatened to knock me from my perch, it was that strong) and provided a soundtrack just one step removed from crashing surf.

Later that day, I had Simon and Grafunckle's "Greatest Hits" blaring when my date came to collect me, causing my next door neighbors to comment on the volume. When I explained that a woman always needs a dressing soundtrack, they grinned like fools.

Well aware that half the town was going to Dogwood Dell to hear the music from "Hamilton," we devoted the evening to music at Gallery 5 instead where our audience presence was more needed and my companion got to experience the sublime pleasures of seeing Dave Watkins perform.

The show kicked off with Deer Eat Birds, a young (and satisfyingly diverse) group having a ball crafting their post rock aural landscape with occasional Curtis Mayfield-like vocals from the frontman, while Epiphany, with two 7-string guitars and a 6-string bass, had clearly studied their rock god posturing moves.

Dave Watkins played third for a change, fitting given his years of experience over the much younger bands on the bill. Half the room talked through the first few minutes of his set until, as is always the case, they became sucked in to the elaborate and multi-layered soundscapes he was creating. Ditto my companion who, like me, was awed by how Dave is able to construct his music.

Last up was Majjin Boo, the emo/math rock/experimental/prog group we'd seen play an acoustic set just the other night in the park. Their plugged in sound with a drummer was a far cry from our first time hearing them, so I'll be curious to hear how the sound develops with time.

Walking home after the show,  we marveled at how quiet Jackson Ward was. Almost no one on porches or walking down the street and, even odder, almost no sounds of traffic. In case we'd missed an apocalypse alert, we immediately retreated to my balcony for more music and a little night breeze.

5. Mountain Mist

The second day of a four day-weekend should be a no-brainer. Of course I want to plan something fun and why not with days left for goofing off?

Our happy motoring began by heading to Crozet - past a succession of cops pulling over speeders - for wine tasting, a picnic and polo match-watching from a prime spot under a large shade tree.

Not for us the canopies (labeled with affiliations such as Ole Miss, Alabama and, of course, UVA) lined up along the sidelines when we could see the polo matches just as well and keep our bottles of Crose' Rose' comfortably shaded. New since the last time I'd been, King Family Vineyards now has wine carts that drive around the perimeter so guests don't have to make the trek to the tasting room when their bottle gets low.

First world problems, I know.

I overheard a woman say they'd been staying in Staunton and decided to drive over for the match today and been pleasantly surprised that it was 10 degrees cooler here than it had been in Staunton. We'd definitely chosen the right direction to head today.

Midway through the first match, we spotted a mist rolling down the mountain and eventually a light rain arrived, but just enough to send us to the stable's porch for ten minutes before it moved on and we could return to our encampment.

Plenty of people left during the shower and others departed after the first match, but with a mountain-loving companion who'd never been to a polo match, we were there for the duration. Even once the second and final match ended, we lingered on until one of the wine cart drivers informed us that they had a wedding coming in so we'd need to move to the tasting room.

Somehow, four hours had passed in the blink of an eye.

6. Pie-eyed

The temperature in Crozet was 84 degrees when we left and we fully expected to return to a sauna in Richmond, but it was only 86 when we rolled in, despite fluctuations up to 88 as we drove east.

The neighborhood was just as deserted, but we took a chance and strolled over to Graffiato's for pizza, spotting a few tourists near Quirk and not much else in the way of liveliness, so we made our own.

The hostess made sure we knew it was still happy hour - please, imbibe cheaply! - and we paired discount drinking with an Untouchables pizza (spinach, mozzarella, smoked ricotta, chili-garlic oil and the best possible pizza sweet note, tomato marmalata) and a spicy Italian sausage pizzetta for the win.

Digestion was accompanied by Bryan Ferry, a little night air and endless conversation, as it should be on a fine stay-cation.

Life I love you, all is groovy.

On The Highway to Happiness

Correcting one cultural lapse only reveals additional ones.

I went to the Byrd Theatre for "Sullivan's Travels," a 1941 film, because it's #61 on the American Film Institute's top 100 films of all time, has a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes and because I'd never seen a Veronica Lake film.

Apparently that's all it takes to lure me out on a thunder-storming Wednesday evening.

What I didn't know was that it was about a director who wants to abandon directing comedies and make a serious film (a la Frank Capra) about the Depression and call it "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" Incidentally, that's another film I've never seen.

I can't help but wonder if Coen brothers fans know this tidbit.

Before the movie, though, I situated myself at the bar at Nota Bene for Stobi Rose (Macedonian), the only cauliflower I know of that makes fans out of haters (mostly men) and wood oven pizza (margarita) while rain poured down on Main Street and vintage soul - including rarities like "Up the Ladder to the Roof" - played.

Conversation centered around "A Quiet Passion," the movie about Emily Dickinson I'd recently seen because I finally had access to someone else who'd seen it and needed to discuss it as much as I did.

And speaking of Dickinson, hers was one of the quotes - "My friends are my estate" - on the menu at Eleven Months, the new pop-up in Carytown which plans to revamp concepts once a year.

To keep track of that limited time, there's a digital clock on the wall counting how long they've been open (28 days, 9 hours and change while I was there), but the bartender explained that once they got to 5 1/2 months, the clock would begin counting down to closing day.

Got that?

Presently, the theme is "best friends forever" and the menu is full of quotes about friendship, but as soon as that begins to feel tired, the plan is to replace it with another theme.

The catch is that no iteration can last longer than 11 months, which I have to assume is the average attention span of their intended diners. Don't worry, kids, that's plenty of time to post video to Snapchat before moving on to the next new thing.

Not me. My eccentricities are my estate.

Lookin' for Adventure

It was a day for relaxin' with the womenfolk and then showing a gent around.

Pru, her boho-clad Mom and I had made a date last week to lunch at Merroir for a reprise of our "ladies-who-lunch" extravaganza, meaning all of us had been eagerly looking forward to it.

When the weather forecast showed that it would be a cloudy, breezy and cool afternoon, Pru got nervous. Me? I interpreted those conditions as prime beach weather and looked forward to not having to slather on sunscreen for our al fresco meal.

"You and your silver linings," she always chides me. Yea, aren't they great?

The trip there, as always, delights with that bucolic, small town Northern Neck charm that announces you are heading toward a body of water. It's not just the flat landscape - her Mom, a Rodanthe native, likened it to Currituck and I could see the comparison - but the softness of the air as you get closer to the river.

With an hour's drive, we had plenty of time for chatter about non-assertive men, being gas-lit and how people change because of what life hands them. Pru tried to label us by saying, "We are some hard, jaded, bitter women," but I disagreed.

We are some experienced, cautious, complex women if you ask me.

We were also far from the only people who'd wanted a riverside lunch despite the forecast, although we did choose to eat on the porch rather than out in the open air. Fortunately, the "windows" of the plastic porch enclosure were rolled up on the marina side and the front door facing the river was open, so we had all the smells and occasional errant breezes but without getting chilly.

The food, as always, was second only to the view.

When our server asked if we wanted un-spiced or spicy steamed shrimp, she looked to Pru for an answer. I immediately did my best impression of spicy, which unexpectedly involved jazz hands and a vibrating body that the server found hilarious.

In fact, I may have over-vibrated since there was so much spice on the shrimp and accompanying vegetables (onions, celery, red pepper) that our mouths were soon on fire. Meanwhile I polished off a dozen Old Saltes and probably the best bowl of crab and vegetable soup I've ever slurped.

There were also angels on horseback, a stuffin' muffin and grilled shrimp to round out the meal on the porch. The sky was just as cloudy and the air just as beachy when we reluctantly hit the road for Richmond, making a stop at Norman's produce just long enough to score vegetables and hanging baskets of petunias for Pru's Church Hill manse.

"Are you sure you don't need some vegetables?" she asked. "Don't you ever cook at home?" Have we met?

And, yes, I make oatmeal every morning.

Back at home, I had enough time to answer a few emails before heading out for a walk that would take me to my evening's plans and provide the walk I hadn't had time for because of my lunch plans.

Unexpectedly, I had company.

Barely two blocks from home, a girl walking a bike joined me at a corner and we began talking. In Richmond a year after growing up in Roanoke, she's an anthropology major who knows she wants to work outside. Except she might want to do something else, she admitted guiltily.

As we crossed Broad Street and headed down Grace Street toward her boyfriend's apartment and my plans at Secco, we talked about a woman's range. She said she felt like her interests were so wide and she had no idea how to begin to narrow them down to figure out who she is and what she wants.

I may have made her day when I shared my age and that I'm still narrowing my range and figuring out who I am and what I want. When she admitted that she's often quiet in group conversations, she said it was because she was eager to hear other, more knowledgeable people's thoughts to help her form her own opinion.

I couldn't help but assure her that the older she gets, the more comfortable she'll be with what she thinks and likely lose that hesitation about speaking out. Opinions form themselves as you navigate the pleasures and perils of life.

When we parted, I told her I couldn't have asked for a better companion for my walk and she thanked me for the wisdom.

I was meeting a friend who'd been to Sicily a few years back and swore he hadn't been able to find Sicilian wine in Richmond since returning. Always happy to take on a challenge, I'd suggest meeting at Secco to see what it offered up.

One Sicilian red, but since we were looking for something a bit lighter, we wound up drinking a Basque Rose, mainly because he'd never heard of Basque wine, much less had any. Wait, there's more: he hadn't had a Rose before.

Intervention was essential.

The slightly spritzy Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis not only brought him into the Rose fold, but did so with zippy notes of mineral and red fruit. It was a gorgeous pairing with smoked arctic char bruschetta and roasted asparagus with a crusted egg, its yolk oozing richness over every bit of green.

We finished the bottle with just enough time to stroll over to the Byrd to see a film that had already aroused the envy of everyone on Secco's staff who had to work tonight: 1969's "Easy Rider."

My friend had not only never seen it start to finish (my one and only viewing had been at Capital Ale House a lifetime ago back in 2010) but it had been one of the first two albums he'd bought with his own money.

In other words, it was inexcusable that he'd never sat through it.

From the footage of Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans (which might as well have been newsreel footage for how fascinating a glimpse into what the parade used to be it was) to the masterful use of existing music rather than a true soundtrack (can you ever have too much Roger McGuinn?), we were both completely sucked in to the late '60s with Captain America and Billy as they encountered hippie communes, free love and a whole lot of bad attitudes about nothing more than long hair.

We took our post-film discussion to the Gypsy Room so as to have the accompanying musical stylings of the Mikiyas Negussie Trio - jazz guitar, upright bass, drums - with more Rose education for him in the form of glasses of La Galope Rose.

We'd barely settled on the couch when my friend commented on the beautiful tone of Negussie's guitar, but soon corrected himself to acknowledge that it was as much about the young trio's talent as the instruments.

And although he'd played the room before as a musician, this was his first time hearing a show there and was inordinately pleased at the room's sound. The low-lit vibe and three sets of music, the final with a sax player sitting in, didn't hurt either.

Cultural lapses corrected? Check. Rose education begun? Check. Great company morning 'till night? Check.

Captain America may have put it best: "I'm hip about time." I like to think I am, too, especially when using it like I did today to store up especially satisfying interludes for those times when things are not so pleasurable.

Just another deposit of good times in the bank of life. Ya dig?

The Ghastly Menace

Fritos are not just for food anymore...and other cautionary tales from  April 20.

Visiting the Northern Neck today came with the added bonus of my oldest nephew being there as well as getting to explain the genesis of the holiday 4/20 to my Mom while my Dad and nephew chortled mightily. Mom just rolled her eyes.

It was over a lazy lunch on the screened-in porch that we began discussing the significance of Fritos in the cosmic scheme of things. Family law dictates that liverwurst sandwiches can only be served with Fritos, and despite not having liverwurst today, we were having Fritos. Nephew pointed out that they were the heaviest chip because of all the oil, which makes them handy when he's hiking the Appalachian Trail.

Fritos can be used as emergency fire starters, he informs us, like oil-soaked kindling sticks you can buy. Tor prove his point, he lighted one - not even a Scoop, just a regular one - right there at the lunch table. It flared at the touch of a match, impressing us with its instantaneous flame.

I only hope the Girl Scouts know this.

It was a gorgeous day to be at the river - all kinds of fragrant flowers and bushes in bloom, the water half a dozen shades of blue - and an unexpected opportunity to be learning which snacks are flammable. I'm always happy to learn.

Keeping the holiday theme going, I put on my flowered rubber boots to walk over in the pouring rain to Coalition Theater for "It's a Wonderful Plant," a comedic take on a world without weed (see: Frank Capra, spinning in his grave) and an outgrowth of the "High There!" live comedy series - I'd seen three humorous episodes - they'd done.

The boots ensured that no puddle was too deep to ford, no downspout too powerful to stick my foot under, no uneven juncture of the pavement unworthy of exploration. Granted, a few overly-zealous splashes did result in some interior boot splattering, but, truthfully, I brought that on myself, and my feet were barefoot inside the boots so what did it matter?

No need to worry about a lot on 4/20. Better to laugh.

With a guardian angel trying to earn his bong, "It's a Wonderful Plant" made a strong case for rollin' and bowlin' over reading "Cat Fancy" magazine and praying with your family, which is apparently what happens when people don't have weed. Oddly enough, in a world without pot, people use McDonald's coffee to alter their reality and things are really tense, making for some pretty hilarious sketch comedy.

And once live comedic actors have reminded you that the world is a better place where the devil's salad is served, any earnest 4/20 celebrant (or, ahem, any pathetic student of popular culture who hasn't seen it) really has no choice but to head to the Byrd to see a late screening of "Reefer Madness."

Like me, the ballet dancer (who moved here last Fall from Charlotte and is loving Richmond) in front of me in the popcorn line was a "Reefer" virgin and, like me, she was there as a student of cultural history. Where I was able to blow her mind was in telling her that even when I was in college, this was a very old and dated cult classic film.

"Wow, I had no idea it was that old," she marveled, with no clue of the implication there.

The sheer melodrama of a black and white 1936 church-made piece of propaganda about the violent narcotic and unspeakable scourge that was destroying the fabric of American youth had those of us in the audience howling in laughter just reading the introduction. And my goodness, when we got to the scenery-chewing histrionics of the low-budget actors, the crowd's younger members were groaning and giggling in agony at the remnants of old-school silent-era over-acting.

Now that I think about it, it sounded a lot like the uncontrollable laughter that the film said was the first effect of using the demon drug.

Once I'd had the full range of 4/20 experiences, I could wade through the sticky air to go home. Walking past my neighbor's porch, he called out asking how I was doing tonight. Great, I told him, because it feels like a warm summer night and I love that. "You can't ask for more!" he called as I rounded my garden.

Unless it's for more Fritos, I can't. I don't.

And We're There

While it wouldn't be fittin' not to tie dinner to the evening's entertainment, we proved that anything goes afterward.

Waiting to be scooped up by friends, I admired the remains of my garden, still amazingly colorful in December despite the recent spate of cold weather while noticing that the birdbath was filled to the brim after yesterday's day-long deluge.

I don't want to brag (nor do I deserve to given how long it's been since I gave my handkerchief-sized garden any attention), but interspersed with ferns and Gerbera daisies still surprisingly lush were blooms of all kinds: pink dianthus, fuchsia snapdragons, pink and white geraniums, purple and pink vinca, miniature lavender petunias, one pale pink blossom on the clematis hybrid that looks like a dahlia and hips galore on the pale pink miniature rosebush.

Considering I saw footage of snow falling on the Japanese Garden in Portland today, the colorful array felt like a near-winter gift.

Taking a cue from tonight's film, ours was a southern-themed evening, beginning in the understated brown and taupe interior of Spoonbread Bistro, where the flatware is golden and the vibe is luxe.

Pru and Beau faced me in a booth that sequestered us away from the restaurant's activity, while I grilled our server about the origins of her name, correctly having guessed her parents were inspired by a flame-haired movie star.

The subject of not responding to a person's texts came up (clearly not in reference to moi), with Beau mentioning one sent today to Pru, who'd been too busy to answer. My question was, if a compliment falls on a tart's ears and she fails to acknowledge it, did the text even happen?

Discuss.

The amuse bouche was a blue crab arancini, setting the meal's decadent tone from that first perfect bite.

What followed only got more obscene. As proof, I give you exhibits A) a lobster "Pop Tart" with Hollandaise sauce for icing, B) shrimp scampi with possibly the creamiest Cheddar grits I've ever swallowed, surrounded by chunky tomato "fondue," C) Cesar salad that tasted like the dressing had been made tableside it was so freshly egg-y, and D) scallops over caramel corn pudding with applewood bacon drizzle.

And that's just what I ate, never mind the sea bass Beau inhaled or the foie gras and spoonbread with Smithfield ham that Pru managed to disappear with not a bit of  assistance from us.

As she took the last succulent bite, she looked at us with only mild regret and said, "To be honest, I wanted to share with you two, but I literally could not stop myself from eating it all."

Luckily, Beau and I are not the judgmental types. But when she pronounced having had "an elegant sufficiency" and they both opted for coffee over dessert, I alone was left to order tonight's dessert special, a Gran Marnier chocolate mousse.

Just for the record, both their golden demitasse spoons touched down in my mousse more than once, despite earlier assurances that they had no room for sweets.

Tonight's conversation was particularly notable because it was the first in the two years of our three-way friendship that Beau actually heard it all.

After years of missing out due to ears damaged by heavy machinery when he was in the Navy, and despite being a man (so stubborn for no good reason), he'd gotten corrective devices so he could stop reading lips (only a slight exaggeration), a challenge given that  Pru and I talk a lot (both loudly and sotto voice) and he used to miss 85% of it.

No more. In fact, when I commented early on in the meal that he could finally hear us, he smirked and said, "I've already turned the volume down on you. You two are loud."

What his new hearing aids mean is that now when we ask him something, we needn't repeat ourselves. So it was that when Pru was discussing with him who he should conjure when mulling how to handle a situation, she asked who he admired and he came up immediately with Cary Grant.

"So do or say what Cary Grant would do or say," she explained, a point that somehow led to him admitting that if push came to shove and if he were to swing both ways, he'd have little problem swinging with Cary Grant.

The things you learn once everyone can hear the conversation clearly.

Walking out of Spoonbread feeling full as ticks and fully indulged, Pru turns to me and asks, "Remember the Jefferson?"

It took me a moment to get her drift, namely a long-ago December night as we were leaving Lemaire when she'd "appropriated" a poinsettia or two on our way out.

As I mentioned, I try not to judge but I know I left Spoonbread's poinsettia sitting on the table as we exited, stage right.

This month's classic film at the Byrd was "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," a film that is as much about looking at two superior physical specimens - 26-year old Elizabeth Taylor and 33-year old Paul Newman - as it is about a dysfunctional southern family, especially in a Hollywood adaptation that all but scrubbed the homo-erotic elements from Tennessee Williams' script.

I wouldn't have even thought that was possible. Ditto the seemingly innocuous subject of the Sweet Tarts Beau was enjoying devolving into taking vitamins and minerals, which somehow led to the inner workings of Beau's, er, plumbing before, as Pru so eloquently put it, "And we're there."

TMI, that's all I'm going to say. Fortunately, the movie began.

Why is it so damn hard for people to talk?

Praise be that the film at least kept the setting, a stately house with screen doors opening to the veranda from second floor bedrooms cooled by constantly whirring ceiling fans. You could almost feel the humidity plucking on everyone's last nerve.

A drinking man's someone who wants to forget he isn't still young and believing.

Although I've seen "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" produced as a play multiple times, I'd never seen the 1958 movie version (shh, I didn't tell Pru so she wouldn't give me crap about it), so I was pleasantly surprised at the strong performances of everyone involved - scenery was chewed with real skill - although I was ready to smother those annoying child actors every time they came on screen.

Ain't nothin' more powerful than the odor of mendacity.

After leaving the Byrd, I suggested a nightcap and film discussion but was voted down because Herself was tired, at least for the first block we drove east, but suddenly she reconsidered.

Our southern theme went out the window as easily as cigarette ashes, but now at least she was up for anything.

In no time, we were at the bar at Amour, complimenting the owner's new goatee, drinking and swooning over digestifs of Plantation Barbados 5 Year Rum aged in French cognac barrels and taking topics from all four participants.

Sure, some people want to dish about annoying foodies, but others only want to covet swing coats and plan pre-concert parties. To each his own.

We covered a mutual friend's Studio 54-themed party, a planned trip to Antibes next summer, a formerly gawky teen morphing into a handsome young man aboard a yacht (with photos) and Pru's hippie chick Mom recently dying her hair green.

Digressions included Trump's excellent Blanc de Blanc, the grace notes of Willamette Valley wine and tastes of the latest Beaujolais Nouveau.

Marveling at the number of years Amour's been open, Pru wanted to say that she'd visited it first, but the owner corrected her and I won that round.

Not that I hadn't already had dessert, but since my partners in crime had not, we over-indulged in chocolate sea salt caramel creme brulee, followed by the wonder of Beaujolais Nouveau sorbet (hints of orange on the front, anise on the finish), just the kind of delight you'd only get at Amour.

In the blink of an eye, three hours were gone and Beau had some wee concerns about his meetings tomorrow, so we thanked our host and departed.

This time, it took less than a block to realize that we'd not uttered a single word of discussion about the film, ostensibly the point of a third stop.

'We're done. There will be no do-overs tonight!" Pru announced firmly as Beau wisely kept the car moving eastward, knowing we'd made the same gaffe another time and then spent another full hour finally having the discussion we'd lost sight of.

The real question is, what would Cary Grant have done? Go home after a mere seven hours together?

Not likely. As I always say, ain't nothin' more powerful than conversations not shared.

Broken in a Complex Kind of a Way

The election of Donald Trump can be traced directly back to one thing: bad parenting.

If this election proves nothing else, it's that fully half the country lost sight of the absolute necessity for role-modeling for current and successive generations, or how else could they have willingly gotten behind a candidate who bullies and demeans women, gropes them and mocks the disabled, seeks out revenge and belittles those who disagree with him?

After much consideration, I have to assume that they must have been raised by wolves rather than by mindful parents aware of how their actions - public, private and political - would be read by young minds as an endorsement of an abominable man.

In these times of diminishing attention spans, fear of missing out and complete self-absorption, our new reality is that few have the desire or energy to worry about how their actions as a parent will resonate in the decades to come with the children who witnessed them.

Let's face it, the major challenge of being a parent is that it's a 24/7 role for a minimum of 18 years. Apparently we're no longer a culture that makes that kind of commitment to anything, even future generations.

Because it's 18 years of always crossing the street at the corner with the traffic light so that kids learn that it's not acceptable to break the rules simply because no one's looking. It's 18 years of not using foul language in front of children lest they think it's an acceptable form of expression. Eighteen years of always considering how what you do and say will mark the people you're raising.

Bottom line? Parenting is inconvenient and requires an inordinate amount of selflessness and who's got that to spare anymore?

That this has become the norm is the true crime here.

I can not believe that any parent who voted for Trump took into consideration the damaging message they were sending to their children by choosing this man, by treating him as worthy to run, much less lead or represent this country to the rest of the world.

We've shown future generations that a sociopath with no more credentials than a string of failed businesses, half a dozen bankruptcies and a reality show is good enough.

The bar has been lowered so far that it becomes inevitable that future candidates will also climb out of some primordial ooze with an entitled attitude and misogynist bent while no one bats an eye.

I thought yesterday was difficult because of the tension and worry of election day, but in retrospect, yesterday was a walk in Byrd Park compared to the reality of today's headlines. No one I know seems to have a handle on how to process it.

From my best friend in Texas who I'm trying to lure to Richmond...
WTF!!! How did this happen??? The morons who elected this egomaniacal ass wipe just did a grave disservice to our country and the world. It may be Canada instead of VA.

From my Mom, who's voted Democratic in every election since Adlai Stevenson...
I am past worried. I am stunned, appalled and every negative thing you can think of. Can you imagine him at  state dinner or a meeting of world leaders where he can't just lay down the law as he did as a CEO?  And what is going to happen to his supporters when he can't deliver the pie in the sky things he promised? Utter chaos.

From a smart musician friend looking for answers...
What a morning. Oh, I should probably check out your blog for enlightenment. Oh, nothing new yet. Understandable.

From Coalition Comedy Thetaer...
Free shows all this weekend. It's the very, very least we could do. We woke up to a bizarre reality this morning. We're offering the people of RVA a consolation; a much-needed distraction from the weird times we're trudging through. Let's take a break this weekend and just laugh, OK?

Given the state of the day, I felt grateful to already have plans to laugh with like-minded friends - three good people bound to be as dazed about this outcome as I felt - first for a killer dinner at L'Opossum (the foie gras! the oysters in absinthe fog! the hot black bottom!) and then with an inscrutable film noir, "The Big Sleep," ("She's a real sad tomato") at the Byrd.

In fact, all day long, I kept reassuring myself that friends and community will help us all get through whatever lies ahead. Part of the favorite couple who'd picked me up said he'd experienced much the same feeling of reassurance earlier.

There are denial, grieving and acceptance phases to navigate still, sure, but like sailors tossed overboard, all we can do is cling to something, even if it's just others who also grasp how deep the water is.

After being joined by our easy-going fourth, the mood lightened once we'd finished the post-mortem on the election results and the dinner plates were cleared. Or perhaps that was just the delirium of four desserts, more wine and a need to laugh so we didn't cry.

The Bogart and Bacall film also provided chuckles with the kind of witty, rapid-fire dialog that smart characters in '40-era films had while wearing pin-striped suits and satin dressing gowns.

Vivian: You go too far, Marlowe.
Marlowe: Those are harsh words to throw at a man, especially when he's walking out of your bedroom.

Two of us had never seen the movie before and the other two knew it well. The classic film managed to provide a fine distraction and even a dash of relevance.

Vivian: I don't like your manners
Marlowe: And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.

In a related note, I don't like what happened on election day. I didn't ask for this. I don't mind if you don't like my reaction. I don't know how to feel any other way. Things may get pretty bad.

And I know with complete certainty that we will grieve over this bizarre reality for many a long winter evening to come.

I am eternally grateful for fellow sad tomato friends who help me forget that for a while.

Thank You for a Funky Time

I mean, how could I not stand in line with a purple umbrella under a pouring rain?

If the Byrd was going to show "Purple Rain," why would I not be there to see it? I'm not ashamed to say I'm still mourning the loss of a talent the likes of which I may never see again.

So, like any self-respecting fan who first saw the movie in 1984, I dressed the part with a purple shirt, ruffles and big hair and headed to Carytown early before the rest of the purple-clad masses arrived.

Secco welcomed me into its bosom with a Nebbiolo Rose, a mixed green salad with Feta and red onion and Spanish octopus with fiddleheads ('tis the season), savored along with a Shins-based soundtrack.

When I overheard the servers discussing Beyonce's "Lemonade," I invited them closer so I could hear their thoughts. One postulated that Bey and Jay Z. planned it all and there was never any real marital strife between them, while the other thought the album was a laundry list of women's complaints with the world, meant to be a manifesto.

Together they explained why L'il Kim was a far more significant music figure than she was given credit for and why Beyonce's feminist tracks owes a lot to Kim's groundbreaking style.

I'd forgotten what fertile territory Secco is for first date-watching and tonight was no exception. The duo nearest me spoke awkwardly until the first glasses of wine kicked in and then he began sharing his music taste (Dave Matthews Band - run, girl, run!) and she how demanding her nursing schedule is.

After she shared a story, his response was, "Sure you did! It's a cake job. You needed 20,000 steps today."  If I were to translate that, I'd say he insulted her, made light of her work and then presumed she's a Fitbit junkie, but what do I know?

Hearing that one of the dessert options was Baked Alaska, I told my server about my own Baked Alaska period (slightly before the "Purple Rain" period) when I decided that it wasn't all that difficult a thing to make and did so for many special occasions.

Even so, what I'd done in quantity couldn't have been matched by the quality of this version: a pistachio cookie topped with orange ice cream, blood orange slices and meringue, all situated on crushed pistachios and blood orange puree.

Hell, back when I was making Baked Alaskas, I'd probably never even heard of a blood orange.

In line at the Byrd by 8:30, I saw manager Todd in an orange shirt and chided him. "Just you wait!" he promised, directing traffic on the sidewalk.

Best of all, it began to rain, necessitating me taking out my - wait for it - purple umbrella. A man walked by in a purple frock coat and top hat.

In front of me was a trio from Philly (complaining about how southern drivers are clueless at merging and roundabouts) chain vaping (apparently that's a thing) and behind me a woman from Vancouver who in ten years of living here had never been to the Byrd.

Once we bought tickets, we switched lines and stood in the purple rain waiting to get in. Not a soul complained. The crowd was big enough to justify opening the balcony while latecomers straggled in looking for seats together in the rapidly-filling theater.

After taking a prime end seat, a guy asked to get by, explaining, "I'm with my mother," as if that mattered. He and Mom, a retired high school English teacher with a doctorate, quickly initiated conversation with me and I learned that she'd had six sons (I loved her stories of fading into the background when all six men get together - so relatable to what my Dad does when me and my five sisters get together), one of whom was with her and another, Mike, who was on his way.

Older brother was frustrated because Mike, who had initiated the evening, had yet to arrive and was not answering his phone. "That's just the kind of thing he would do," he complained repeatedly. Then why get upset if he's acting in his normal way?

"Good point!" he agreed, as if he hadn't realized the obvious.

Finally everyone was seated and Todd introduced the film wearing a purple shirt, saying, "This is what it sounds like when doves cry..."

The film had just begun to massive cheering with "Let's Go Crazy" when suddenly a man was at my side in the dark asking to get by.

Mike, you finally got here, I said to the stranger. Once he realized I knew his name, he asked for mine, demanded a hug and suggested he sit next to me.

He was a worthy seatmate, hooting and hollering along with the rest of the vocal crowd who'd come to be immersed in the purple world, and clearly very familiar with the film.

But unlike the more seasoned members of the audience, Mike couldn't possibly appreciate the '80s world depicted in the film like some of us could. Champagne served in martini glasses! So many VW Squarebacks! Impossibly big hair on girls wearing gloves! Perfectly applied eyeliner on so many guys!

I'm here to tell you it was all true, or at least it was true in the clubs of Washington, D.C. in the '80s. Unfortunately, back then it was also okay to have lines about "long-haired faggots" and that language is not missed.

The crowd couldn't stop themselves from reacting to the songs, so as "When Doves Cry" began, I heard murmurs - "There's my song!" and "Here we go!" - of affirmation and clapping in time by most of the room. Mike and I were already dancing in our seats anyway.

Seeing the Time onscreen brought back memories of seeing them at the Second Street Festival a few years ago, Morris Day and Jerome still seamless dancing partners, if a bit longer in the tooth.

Either many in the crowd hadn't seen the film before or had forgotten it because during the domestic violence scenes, there was utter silence.

Cheers ensued after Prince did "Purple Rain" and the lights in the theater's alcoves began pulsing in time to the music with "I Would Die 4 U" and finally, "Baby I'm a Star," his dancing bringing people to their feet, cheering and clapping.

Truly, it was as much a religious experience as a heathen like me could hope to have. Watching the beautiful young (26!) Prince onscreen for the first time in 32 years was powerful, made more so for the adoring energy in the room.

Walking out afterwards, the guy next to me says to no one in particular, "I gotta come back Saturday to see it again." Amen, brother.

This is what it sounds like when fans mourn.

All Hail the Filth Elder

I can only hope to be as irreverent as John Waters when I'm 69.

Everyone knew tonight's main event was seeing him live at the Byrd. That meant playing the odds and getting to Carytown just slightly ahead of the hundreds of other attendees, sliding onto a stool at Secco and not moving until nigh on to show time.

Reveling in scarves and pumpkin lattes may be the order of the day for everyone else now that Fall seems to be making itself felt, but I'm not the least bit happy about the cooler weather. I made the best of it with a glass of Calabretta "Gaio Gaio," a young Sicilian I hoped would share some warmth with me.

For an appropriate nosh to accompany it, I had the satisfyingly rich four beast (beef, pork, lamb, chicken) meatballs with broccoli rabe, peppers, preserved lemon and Parmesan while discussing tonight's expected crowd with another attendee.

 "If the bomb drops on the Byrd tonight, it'll wipe out the culturati of Richmond," she concluded. "Same thing I said when Laurie Anderson played the VMFA in the '90s. Boom, gone!"

About the time I noticed the woman next to me eyeing and then ordering the same meatballs, I asked her if she was going to see John Waters. "Yea, isn't it cool that he's here?" Naturally this led to a wide-ranging conversation about the state of the scene, which we agreed was robust, to say the least.

Meanwhile, I overheard a man behind me ask a server what is surely one of their least favorite questions, "Do you have any big, stupid reds?"

A woman told me about having to wear a dress for two weeks, a rarity for her, saying it had been a nightmare. "My thighs chafed so bad I had to put cream on them." You don't want to laugh at someone's misfortune, but this is a hazard of dress-wearing I can't say I've ever had.

By the time my chocolate torte arrived, my copycat new friend ordered the same and we noticed that people were paying their checks and heading over to the Byrd to find seats.

When it comes to lingering over dessert or missing part of John Waters, I'm afraid chocolate takes a back seat (there's an analogy he'd enjoy).

In line to be ID'd and have my ticket marked, I heard someone say the theater was filling up fast. I found a solo seat and asked a man if he minded me crawling over him. "I've been waiting for it all my life," he quipped.

Despite the very few seats still available, people kept pouring in to look instead of heading directly upstairs to the balcony, which would have made far more sense. A vocal wave kept going up from the back rows, tempting everyone in the front to think something was starting when it wasn't.

Andrew and Ward, the organizers of the event, got a deserving ovation when they came onstage, but their main goal was to thank sponsors and make it crystal clear that no recording of any kind was allowed per you-know-whose insistence.

I was thrilled. For a change, people would be forced to stay in the moment and I wouldn't be surrounded by them experiencing a show through a phone. It was downright refreshing.

Finally John Waters walked out in a red blazer, white shirt and black tie with black pants and the game was on. "This Filthy World" had finally landed in Richmond.

He began by talking about "trigger warnings," saying that college level teachers use them now to warn students that challenging material lay ahead. "Isn't that why you go to college?" Waters asked. "My whole life has been a trigger warning."

His patter was non-stop, his delivery practically seamless as he reminisced about seeing trashy girls for the first time when he got to public junior high, being a "filth elder" at 69 and  feeling embarrassed about being the same age as the number that represents a sex act he never cared for.

Sometimes it was musings - "Imagine if Michael Jackson had ever seen Justin Bieber," and other times, anecdotes - "This movie played seven years in Baltimore, so I had to go see it. There was a birth scene in it. I saw men jerking off to birth. That's why I'm up here today."

Some of his humor came from comparisons between then and now, like when he asked, "What's with young people and the lack of hair? Is alopecia sexy? Now there will be no more crabs." Then, dropping his voice to sound small and pathetic, he said, "Where will they go?"

Hitting another current hot button, he asked, "We're not allowed to make fun of Caitlyn Jenner. Why not? She's a reality star, a Kardashian, a Republican and was against gay marriage. Why can't I make fun of that?"

He touched on the exploding transgender movement, expressing fear that dyke culture would be erased entirely with so much sexual reassigning and that that would be a huge loss.

We learned that "Female Trouble," the movie I'd seen last night, was his favorite and that he couldn't understand casting a skinny black girl as Tracey in "Hairspray." The audience cracked up when he shared that one John Waters film retrospective had been tagged, "How much can you take?"

He mused a lot on how he could be bad for his 70th birthday, never really choosing a method. He intends to be buried near Divine, his star, in an area of a cemetery in Towson, Maryland that he's dubbed "Disgraceland."

"So if you outlive me, come have sex on our graves. We'd love that!"

Like in his movies, he made clear that he'd hate to be straight. "There are lots of heterosexual customs I don't want to do. I don't want to do the electric slide." Big laugh.

Some of his references - Diane Arbus, Susan Sontag - went over the heads of certain attendees, evident by lesser reactions to jokes, but also confirmed in the ladies' room line afterwards when I overheard women discussing the parts they hadn't "got."

His theories were hilarious. "We have enough gays. I think gay people need to audition to be gay and a panel of experts will decide" and "Laughter is the enemy of masturbation."

During the question and answer period, Byrd manager Todd asked him if he wanted to come down off the stage, the better to see the people asking questions. "No-o-o-o-o," he said trepedatiously and stayed firmly onstage.

At no point did it feel like we were listening to a man on the cusp of being a septuagenarian. He was lively, sarcastic and always had a tangent at the ready.

When asked how it felt to be a cross-generational star, he managed to dismiss youth and sate the obvious simultaneously.

"Old chicken makes good soup." Like this man, I intend to be good enough to slurp.