Sprinkler Season in Full Bloom

I can already feel July melting away like a cherry popsicle on a summer day.

Holmes and Beloved were kind enough to invite me over for dinner Sunday evening to close out the long Fourth of July holiday weekend. Even better, rather than going mainstream with the traditional hamburgers and hot dogs, they were serving up Champagne, lobster tails and North Carolina steamed shrimp.

Needless to say, I was there ten minutes early and stayed for a solid five and a half hours.

After gorging on dinner, we moved the bottle and the party downstairs to the Man Cave where I requested that Holmes play nothing but bands from the Laurel Canyon era as I regaled them with tidbits from the film I'd recently seen.

That meant starting with 1967's "Buffalo Springfield Again" which opened with the Neil Young-penned and sung "Mr. Soul," a fitting way to kick off a listening party that went on to include (duh) the Byrds, Joni Mitchell (notably absent from the documentary despite her "Ladies of the Canyon" album a few years later) and Tom Petty.

Oh, and chocolate mousse.

The only reason I left before midnight was because it was a school night and even I had Monday responsibilities, beginning with a walk with Mac who had just returned from ten days in Scotland. I was particularly impressed with the news that her group's private guide had worn a kilt - it was his family's tartan, Mac made sure to ask, though she didn't ask what was underneath it - except the day they went hiking when he wore jeans.

As we walked to the river, she described the magical sights they'd taken in: moors, castles and almost no precipitation. She liked both haggis (we agreed it's nothing but Scottish Scrapple) and blood sausage, but was less fond of the potatoes in fish and chips, a dish they naturally ate more than once.

It was good to have my waking buddy with me on the Pipeline after weeks of us being in different places. That said, I couldn't convince her to join me in my now-daily (and thoroughly enjoyable) walk through the sprinklers on Brown's Island before getting on the walkway, a fact she attributed to the phone in her pocket.

One more way that technology saps the fun out of life.

After catching up, she was headed to work and I was headed to the Northern Neck, also for work - I had an interview in Kilmarnock and another in Warsaw - but at least with better scenery than Short Pump where Mac works.

When I left the Front Porch Coffeehouse after the first interview, I was greeted by a roiling black sky in the exact direction I was headed.

Sure enough, I got barely a few miles before a fierce rainstorm slowed traffic to a crawl and visibility to nonexistent.  Since no one on the Northern Neck is in a hurry anyway, I just took it in stride, tried to avoid hydroplaning and just when I thought the sky had cleared, drove right into another squall.

Nerve-wracking as the driving was, I kept reminding myself that my Mom had just told me that they've been so long without rain that the grass crunches underfoot, so at least I was suffering for the greater good.

Back in Richmond, everything looked bone-dry, making it even more of a surprise when I saw photos from the morning storm in D.C., where cars were half submerged at 15th and Constitution Avenue, a crazy sight to behold. The Post said they got a month's worth of rain in one morning.

After a full day of road tripping, all I wanted was a comfortable seat, some vintage Hitchcock and buttered popcorn. Walking into the Byrd to see "Vertigo," manager Todd said to me, "It wouldn't be a Hitchcock movie without you."

I didn't mention it, but it will have to be since I have plans the nights he's showing the other Hitchcocks this month.

The Byrd had a great crowd for a Monday night - far more people than I'd expected, although the parking lot had been full, so I should have been suspicious - and when Todd was introducing the film, he asked who was seeing it for the first time. I was gobsmacked when fully a third of the people raised their hands.

Never seen "Vertigo?" The film that replaced "Citizen Kane" as the greatest film ever made according to the British Film Institute? Say it isn't so.

It was clear that the audience was full of newbies because when Kim Novak's Madeline character throws herself to her death from the mission bell tower, there were gasps of "Whoa!" and "Omygod!"

Guess they didn't see that coming.

Because I've seen "Vertigo" plenty of times, I could sit back and enjoy the film as a 1958 travelogue of San Francisco. Obviously, the city was far more uncrowded in 1958 than when I went there, but that only made it easier to recognize places I'd seen in real life like Lombard Street, Coit Tower (shown repeatedly by Hitch as a phallic symbol), Mission Dolores and Grace Cathedral.

Other signs of the times included a diagnosis of acute melancholia at a sanitarium and Kim Novak's character Judy asking him, "Is this some kind of Gallup Poll?"

Because this was a 21st century audience watching it, many of them for the first time, there were frequent moments when the audience had issues with things James Stewart's character said. I mean, let's face it, when a stranger knocks on your hotel door and wants to not only start seeing you but change how you dress, the style of your hair and your make-up, it's not going to sit well with modern audiences.

When Stewart told Novak he wanted her to change her hair color, he rationalized his request by saying, "It can't matter to you!" I don't know which was louder, the laughter or the sounds of female indignation. Seriously?

In the immortal words of Megan Rapinoe, "I think to be a woman in the world, in general, is frustrating. And I feel we spend so much time fighting against things."

Even in 1958, I'd be willing to bet that women wanted to be the ones who decided what color their hair was. Still do, but now we have bigger fish to fry.

Equal pay would be a fine start. Stick that in your Gallup poll, Hitch.

Sunday Movie, Almost

You don't go to the French Film festival for cutting edge cinema.

As Pru pointed out when she declined my invitation to join me yesterday afternoon, most of the films that get shown end up becoming available on Netflix, so your motivation to go has to come from something other than a desire to read subtitles (not that there's anything wrong with subtitles because some of us love subtitled films).

Besides not having a TV, much less Netflix, I enjoy the festival for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is reveling in being at the FFF now that there are comfortable new seats (bonus: with cup holders) to spend hours in. Those years of camping out in seats with springs digging into our backsides and torn fabric are but a distant memory.

The film Pru had passed on was "Abdel et la Comtesse," a charming comedy about a Contessa with no sons, only a daughter to whom she couldn't pass down the nobility title of her late husband. To the rescue comes a jailbird named Abdel, who also happens to be an art-savvy thief who knows which objets d'art to take and which to leave behind because he's that well-informed about art.

Plus he ultimately has a heart of gold, a code of honor and the Contessa's veterinarian daughter falls for him, but only after Abdel teaches the Contessa to throw gang signs, walk like she doesn't care and take on a local gangster who looks to be about 10.

Plot aside, the movie gave me several French film staples that I love: a gorgeous, old chateau, a character who smokes everywhere and a love story.

Because I've been going to the festival for so many years, it always boggles my mind when I run into somebody without a clue what's going on. That was the case after Mr. Wright and I ate at Branch and Vine when we finished and the chef inquired, "What's next?" After sharing our intention to see a film at the FFF, she was gobsmacked. "Oh, so that must be what the crowds of people were about. I stopped by Carytown on the way over and it was mobbed!"

Okay, I can understand people not going to see French films, but how could you not even know about the four-day event? Especially since it's been going on now for 27 years. But I try not to judge.

Mr. Wright and I were headed back to the Byrd a few hours later when I ran into a couple of people I knew, another reliable perk of the FFF.

First there was the Frenchman, looking tanned and rested, whom I hadn't seen since he closed his restaurant so he could have more time to be with his aging parents in France. Next came the woman I'd met a few years ago at a music show when she first moved into the city. Introducing me to the woman she was with, she explained that her friend was a glass artist and that I wrote for Style Weekly.

It struck me that she was reducing us both to an easy description and I challenged her about how she'd describe herself as succinctly. I know her as a painter and a cyclist, but she admitted she'd have described herself as a graphic designer, which is how she pays the rent.

Funny how we reduce ourselves to what we do for money.

We'd all come to see "Le Collier Rouge," a film set in 1919 about a man conscripted into WW I. It's unfortunate for him because it happens shortly after meeting and falling in love with a woman at a nearby farm after she asks that he make a delivery of hay to her. The audience realizes that they're hot for each other because he's worn his Sunday suit to drop off the hay and she has put on a lovely white eyelet blouse to work in the garden while awaiting his arrival.

I mean, come on, some of us don't even shower unless we have a date, so I see getting gussied up is a sure sign of obvious mutual attraction.

The story, which was told in flashbacks, followed the man into the horrors of war (there were several bayonet-filled scenes I had to close my eyes for) as he became disillusioned with the chaos of war and slaughter of innocent men. In a moment that can probably be ascribed to PTSD, he eventually awards his dog his Legion of Honor medal in front of the entire village and gets carted off to jail for treason.

Naturally, it, too, had several standard issue French film cliches from using a bicycle as transportation to an old French house lit by oil lamps to a love story.

I'm telling you, I love French films for these familiar chestnuts.

After a leisurely morning and lunch at a bustling Garnet's, we headed to Carytown for the FFF one last time. Amazingly, we even snagged the same seats we'd had Thursday and Saturday evenings, minus the giant man with big hair who'd plopped down in front of me Thursday, necessitating craning my neck at an unnatural angle for the entire film just so I could read the subtitles.

But we hadn't allowed for the introduction of the French delegation, students and volunteers, a lengthy process that involves introducing every intern, every student, every Byrd Theatre employee, every actor, director and creative person involved with the entire FFF. I'd sat through it in the past and vowed never to do so again, but the organizers had slyly not included it in the festival schedule, so we'd been ambushed.

I'm here to tell you that I sat there for an hour and a half of the introductions and munched through a medium buttered popcorn before feeling like we were never going to see ""L'echange des Princesses" and giving up. Well, actually I just turned to Mr. Wright and suggested we blow this pop stand rather than devote any more time to waiting for a 3:15 movie to begin when it was already 4:30.

Au revoir, French Film Festival. I love you, but I've got limits.

Until next year...because. let's face it, I always come back.

Thin Slice of Heaven

I witnessed a new cultural low today.

We, as a culture, have apparently sunk to the point that articles must be labeled with warnings to prevent us from starting something we can't finish.  That's right, I'm talking about seeing an online piece labeled with "3 minute read" to alert the reader that this won't take too long.

My guess is that when an article warns that it's a 13 or 15-minute read - gasp! - that saves those with short attention spans from even starting to read it. I mean, what's the point?

Needless to say, I found all this a bit disturbing. Does no one enjoy diving into an article without knowing how much precious time might be lost to reading it or is that just me?

And don't get me started on today being designated as "Single-tasking day," our annual official reminder to quit doing so much at once. Look, I don't need no stinkin' holiday to tell me I can stop walking the trash to the Supercan long enough to watch three mounted policeman clopping down Henry Street like I did this afternoon.

I'll task at my own pace, thank you very much.

Given the amount of online attention, I would be remiss not to acknowledge the passing of designer Karl Lagerfeld. Not because I'm any kind of fashionista, but because he's another icon dying in my lifetime. Besides, any man who goes on records saying, "Sweatpants are a sign of defeat" should be hailed.

As for his, "Vanity is the healthiest thing in life," well, I'm still ruminating on that one. Either way, RIP, Karl.

Tonight was given over to a Penny Marshall tribute at the Byrd Theater. True, she died two months ago, but it seems it took a while to get the appropriate films to celebrate her. I went for "A League of Their Own," but they were showing "Awakenings" afterward for the truly bereaved.

Walking into the Byrd, manager Todd greeted me by saying, "I was just thinking we've had all these special events and I haven't seen you in weeks." It was a good moment to inform him I'd been at Sunday's screening of "From Here to Eternity" and he hadn't. In fact, it was the first time I'd heard a pre-recorded message from Todd instead of the real thing.

Inside, a woman was squealing with delight about how excited she was to see this movie again finally. Her friend agreed, saying, "I haven't seen it in years!" Me, either. My last time was in 1992 when it came out.

One thing I know for sure is that when I saw it then, I would have had no idea where Willamette, Oregon was and that's where the story begins. Nor would I have recognized the field where the girls' teams have their try-outs, but now I'd recognize the ivy-covered wall at Wrigley Field anywhere.

Once I got past the always-lipsticked mouths of the players and their artfully smudged dirty faces and accepted that this was not a docu-sports film, I really enjoyed it in a '90s sort of a way.

I mean, the hair was so early Clinton years, if you know what I'm saying, and so not 1943.

I'll be the first to admit that I didn't realize that in 1992 we still thought it was funny (and acceptable onscreen) to shut up an annoying child by throwing a baseball at his head and knocking him out. And to those who say that's just comedy? Sorry, that's like saying you didn't know blackface was wrong in the '80s.

Not bloody likely.

Geena Davis, always a pleasure to watch, excelled not only in her acting but in her baseball skills. Jon Lovitz did nothing more than play Jon Lovitz, but it was funny enough. Lines like, "I'm just gonna go home, grab a shower and shave, give the wife a little pickle-tickle and I'm on my way" sound downright tame to 21st century ears.

I'd forgotten how good Madonna's dance scene in the bar was, but I was also gratified to see that she had on a girdle when her partner threw her overhead, because no self-respecting woman in 1943 - even one who played baseball for a living - would have gone out at night without a girdle on.

Continuity, I thank you for that, as well as for the pointy white bras the players wore.

Rosie O'Donnell was downright adorable mocking herself - "She was a dancer, I was a bouncer" - while also demonstrating that she really was awfully good at baseball.

Knowing that the bruises and scrapes in the movie were actual bruises and scrapes didn't do anything for me, but watching women slide into bases erased any doubt how they got them. All in the name of ACTING, I suppose.

Tom Hanks was his usual charming (if also alcoholic, in this case) self, never more so than when he referred to a woman by saying, "You gorgeous stack of pancakes, you."

Who wouldn't want to be compared to something that tasty?

Of course the movie's main strength was not the athletic platitudes ("Baseball gets inside you. It lights you up. You play like you love it.") but that it was based on a documentary about these women who blazed a trail in baseball while the men were off to war. I wouldn't have been a fraction as interested had the story not been based on facts, which made it even cooler in the final scene when many of the original players were onscreen.

But I'll tell you what I would have done. Even if the film had come with a warning  - 128 minute viewing - I'd still have sat down at the Byrd and watched it start to finish. But I'm starting to admit that if everything were labeled with the amount of time required, perhaps far fewer people would have come.

Horrors. Could it be that being at home in sweat pants avoiding long articles is enough?

If so, I don't even want to know. There's no cryin' about cultural decline.

When Your Mind's Made Up

If I say I'm going to be at your house at 3:30, I'm going to be at your house at 3:30. Ahem.

And if it changes the rest of my life, so be it.

The problem with starting a blog when you're recovering from illness, unemployed and not in a relationship is that you hope that all those things will change. And while I can be healthy and employed while still finding the time to blog, it's a different story now that I'm in a real relationship.

Whatever that means, it's not anything I've done before.

So after a three day weekend celebrating love and luck, rituals and romance, I'm looking back at all the things I could blog about except that work is preventing me from going on and on long enough to cover even half of that.

Do I begin with the Prosecco kick-off to a six-hour meal at Dinamo, complete with drop-in guest for the much anticipated 3:30 toast with Gabriella Pinot Gris? How about the chocolate espresso torte taken home to enjoy rather than amongst the V-Day celebrants?

And don't get me started on the Year in Review, a photo album documenting 80 moments I may recall with clarity now but probably won't forever.

As for the cozy interlude at Lift to sip whipped cream-topped hot chocolate, well, that was just to take advantage of walking in the snowy/rain mix under a big umbrella together.

Or do I go directly to seeing "Once" at Virginia Rep and reveling in a 13-person cast, all of whom played their own instruments - mandolin, guitar, banjo, violin, drums - and a charming, if unresolved, love story? I first saw "Once" at an arthouse theater in Philly in August 2007, only to leave the theater in tears to drive back down I-95 south alone.

Let's just say it was far preferable to watch the musical love story unfold live with Mr. Wright and stroll home talking about it instead. Best line used 3 times: "I'm always serious. I'm Czech!"

For that matter, I definitely don't have time to go into details about going to see "From Here to Eternity" (a film I'd never seen before) at the Byrd Theatre. And because it was one of our themed movie dates, we followed up a classic film set in Hawaii with dinner at the Hawaiian-influenced Perch. Except that rather than tiki drinks, we went Spanish with Poema Cava to toast the future.

Favorite things about the movie? Burt Lancaster in fitted, '50s-style swimming trunks. Montgomery Clift in a pre-car accident role before his face got messed up. Outdoor Hawaiian Tiki bars circa 1953. Deborah Kerr in stylish high-waisted shorts. Raven-haired Donna Reed as a bad girl who wants to go "proper."

What I did have time for was wallowing in a long weekend with the most hilarious man I know without writing a single word for profit or for the online curious.

I can't promise that will be the case once the Year of Upheaval begins. But for now, I'm doing my best.

Hail to the Indigenous People

Knowing me, you might not guess that I'm football savvy, but it's in my DNA.

I was probably five years old when my parents, along with Dad's best friend, purchased season's tickets for the Washington R*dskins at RFK Stadium. Because they had three tickets, my sisters and I would occasionally be given the opportunity to attend a game with Mom and Dad. And I'm here to tell you that no matter what your feelings are about watching a football game on TV, watching it from the tenth row on the 50-yard line behind the Washington bench is a wholly different experience.

Sometimes wet, often cold and always exuberantly noisy and enthusiastic.

So while I never became the obsessive football fan that all five of my sisters did, I attended enough games to appreciate watching them live in a stadium filled with rabid fans, at least once a year anyway. That said, I haven't been to a game since 1999, a fact attributable to several things: my disdain for the new stadium and the madhouse that is getting there, lack of desire to use free time for football and, yes, the refusal of the team to address their racist mascot.

Now let's go back a few years to when the subject of their politically incorrect name first became a hot topic in popular culture. Yes, the R*dskins were part of my childhood and yes, my family had spent thousands of dollars on seats year after year, but it seemed pretty clear to me that the term was offensive. Period.

Yet I remember a lengthy discussion with a local music promoter and major Washington fan about changing the team's name and he was adamantly against it, claiming it was in no way objectionable, especially given its long history as the team's name. We agreed to disagree.

So naturally when I discover that the Pocahontas Reframed Film Festival is screening "More Than a Word," a film analyzing the Washington team and their use of the derogatory term, and presented by the filmmaker John Little, I made sure I was there. If nothing else, so I could report back to my parents.

When I claimed a seat, the woman in front of me turned to explain why there was a blanket on the seat next to her: the Byrd's heating system wasn't working, a fact she'd discovered at an earlier screening and addressed by going to her car for a blanket. Soon another woman arrived with a large leaf bag in hand, her solution to being cold.

Both looked at me in pity for having no covering, but at least I had on my usual five layers of clothing, so I hoped I could manage.

"More Than a Name" got my attention almost immediately when a historian referred to Washington team owner Dan Snyder as "the George Wallace of the NFL" for going on record as saying that he would NEVER change the team's name. His racist words appealed to the fans interviewed - including one in a garish headdress, war paint and a burgundy and gold jersey (gee, no cultural appropriation there) - all of whom basically said the name was meant "in fun" or that Native Americans "should be honored" by its use.

Look, I don't want to make sweeping generalizations about Washington fans, but they came across as a short-sighted and uninformed bunch.

The documentary explained how the team had begun life as the Boston Braves in 1932 before changing their moniker to the Boston Redskins a year later. But it was when their owner George Preston Marshall, an open racist, moved the team to Washington and hired Coach Lone Star Dietz  as well as four Native American players that the name was cemented.

And, lest we forget, the Washington team was the very last one in the NFL to desegregate, so they didn't exactly have a great track record with non-whites at any point.

Despite fans claiming that they saw nothing offensive in the term "R*dskins," as far back as 1898, the Merriam-Webster dictionary listed the word as a "contemptuous term for American Indians." Frankly, I prefer the term used by Native Americans: the "R" word, because, like the "N" word, it's a term no white person should ever consider using.

That it is emblazoned on hats, shirts, sweats, blankets, underwear and just about every other thing you can imagine (I regret to recall that my parents had a folding card table with the logo on it) is a national embarrassment.

Some of the best parts of the film came from Native American lawyers and activists who've been fighting this battle in the courts as far back as the '60s. But, as the historian/professor pointed out, this is a sea change that will not only require proper teaching of American history to school children, but also a massive re-education of adults who either think there are no more Native Americans left or that they're the uneducated savages popular culture has told us they are.

As he so eloquently put it, this effort is about disrupting colonial practices, because that's where this whole mess began.

Which only serves as a reminder that events such as the Pocahontas Reframed Film Festival (incidentally, the largest Native American film fest on the east coast) are hugely important as a means of teaching people both the correct history and current status of the many tribes from whom we stole land to begin this great democratic experiment.

So in case you're wondering if my Thanksgiving festivities will involve watching the Washington/Dallas match-up, my answer is an emphatic hell no. I may be a native Washingtonian, but I don't have to buy into hometown team loyalty when it involves racism.

Not to mention I have far better things to do post-turkey.

It Had Better Be Tonight

I may be a complicated woman, but I have simple needs.

Sometimes, nothing suits me better than dinner and a movie, especially when the restaurant is a personal favorite, the film is from the '60s and the company is hilarious. I'll even do the driving for a change, which right away tells you I wasn't with Mac or Pru, both of whom prefer to be in control the driver's seat.

Since I was collecting Mr. Wright from the East End, it only made sense to drive directly to Nota Bene for dinner, where we were early enough to score the bar stools with the best prospect and refuge and the music wasn't yet drowned out by people talking.

That darkness was already falling was just another reminder of how much I detest this time of year. And don't get me started on tomorrow's rainy cold front.

But at Note Bene, everything was warm and good (wood fired ovens are reliable that way), from the bartender's favorite salad, a Brussels Caesar of shaved Brussels sprouts, oil-cured olives, pickled radish, the fermented fish sauce garum, white anchovies and the always delicious cheese Grana Padano, to a crispy pizza singing with the sweet/salty balance of wild mushrooms, roasted garlic, caramelized onions, Parmesan and Fontina.

My only regret was how quickly we demolished both while Mr. Wright patiently explained to me how well I was coming along in celebrating my (according to him) new-found shallowness and open-armed embrace of his suggestion that selfishness should guide what we do in this relationship. He argued that both qualities had long existed in me but I'd tamped them down, while I believe that both are learned behaviors since this whole shebang began.

Since he thinks both qualities are a good thing - or a "good bad thing," as he phrased it - I don't know why I'm resisting getting on board with it. Then again, if you listen to him, I hopped that shallow/selfish train a while back, somewhere after the week in Chicago or around the time of the two weeks at the beach, but most certainly after Dubrovnik and Athens.

Go ahead and ask, who am I?

Well, for one thing, I'm a dessert lover and Note Bene has one of my favorites, a fig crostada made obscene with Pineau des Charentes cream, although it's the figs and rustic glazed crust that speak to me more than the cream. Plain and simple, it's a fancy pants Fig Newton and I mean that in the most complimentary way because who else has such a way with figs?

After lingering so long, we barely made it to the Byrd in time for "The Pink Panther," taking our seats while a Pink Panther cartoon played on the screen, a prelude to manager Todd explaining that the reason "The Pink Panther" film had an animated panther in its credits was because United Artists, then at the height of its creative powers, had just formed an animation department and wanted to show off.

Just as importantly, he pointed out that this was the film where Peter Sellers essentially developed the iconic Inspector Clouseau character and took it to the bank, so we were watching its creation.

Billed as "a madcap frolic of crime and fun," I was enchanted by the movie from the credits - "Clothing by Yves St. Laurent" - right on through the opening scene, which began with, "Once upon a time," as all truly great stories should. Eye candy was everywhere since the movie was set in Rome, Paris and Cortina d'Ampezzo, a ski resort in the Alps, making for a gorgeous travelogue, if nothing else.

But the movie had plenty else, from Sellers' brilliant physical comedy (the scene where everyone's dancing and then stops, except Clouseau, who continue to do the Jerk) and deadpan delivery to a glimpse at 1963 Europe. I may hate cold weather, but I could get used to covering myself with a thick lap blanket for a horse-drawn sleigh ride to my destination in Italy.

Those sleigh bells are nothing if not festive.

For that matter, I'd also love to attend a party like those thrown by the mindless social-climbing doyenne Mrs. Dunning because I've always wanted to go to a party where the dancing involved doing the Twist, the Frug and, yes, the Jerk. I didn't see anyone doing the Pony, but it was  crowded party, so I might have missed it.

Not to mention that every movie should have a scene that starts with a close-up of a woman's behind, followed by her singing and dancing as she moves through the seated party guests, clapping and grooving along.

Fact: we have lost something in party-throwing since the '60s.

YSL's clothes were fabulous, especially the brightly-colored tunic and skinny pants ensembles worn by several female characters. all of whom, by the way, wore massive beehive up-dos. Had the film been in Smell-o-Vision, we'd have been choking on the scent of Aqua Net.

And, man, oh, man, I'd forgotten how drop dead gorgeous Robert Wagner was back then. Almost too pretty boy, but not quite. Even more exquisite was Claudia Cardinale, who was new to me but who possessed such astonishing beauty that just ogling her was enough. I don't know how a straight guy could even follow the story for gawking at her.

But that's not my problem. I've got enough on my plate taking Shallow 101 and Selfishness 101, in addition to my usual non-stop cultural calendar. Tonight, it was all I could do to do dinner and a movie while discussing my progress in the courses.

Mr. Wright likes to say that it takes a lot of thinking and talking to keep up with me. I don't know why. I'm a simple woman.

Health, Happiness and Prosperity

If you're going for the sweet life, you've got to do it right.

The moment I saw that the Byrd was screening Fellini's "La Dolce Vita" on a Sunday afternoon, I was on board.

Roger Ebert's favorite film of all time? Sign me up.

But it was when I invited Mr. Wright to join me that the plot thickened. To his way of thinking, why would we leave a three-hour Italian film and not head directly to an old school Italian restaurant? "Think Chianti bottles with candle wax melted down them," he suggested, leaving the actual choice to me.

To add the final touch, he showed up with a rather large bottle of Sambuca to finish out the evening in fine Italian style. All of a sudden, we had a theme going.

At the Byrd, I ran into a trio of music friends who were as excited as we were to spend the afternoon looking through the lens of 1960 Italy. We were also united in our dismay at having learned that Strange Matter is closing, a place where we ran into each other regularly to see interesting bands, and cautiously hopeful that another music venue will replace it.

"La Dolce Vita" was everything I'd hoped it would be: sumptuous black and white cinematography, scenes of post-war Italian decadence, endless commentary on life and love and the drop dead gorgeousness of Marcello Mastroianni (who seemed to bed every beautiful woman he came in contact with). When he tried to convince the other party-goers that it was orgy time, it occurred to me that it was my second Italian movie this week with orgies.

I can assure you, that's not usually the case.

That every night's pleasure - which usually ended at dawn - caused one character or another to suggest eating spaghetti only added to the charm. "Come home, I'll make ravioli! I want to make love!"

And, truthfully, the movie didn't feel anywhere near as long as it should have given the three hours spent scarfing popcorn, watching Anita Eckberg climb the steps of St. Peter's ("She's like an elevator!") and dance every chance she got, and gawking at how much less populated Rome was in 1960 than 2012 when I went.

Not to mention how much better the dresses were back then.

Although the film was a huge box office success and won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, it's also notable for birthing the term "paparazzi," which comes from the character Paparazzo, one of the many celebrity photographers who make up the story of Rome as decaying. Or, as one of the orgy-goers put it, "By 1965, there'll be total depravity. How squalid everything will be."

Flash forward to 2018 in the U.S., my friend, and you'll see just how low things have gotten.

Given the buzz kill that the time change is, we walked out of the Byrd as dusk was settling in and headed directly to the Robin Inn, as old school Italian (and Greek) as was befitting a post-Fellini meal. Granted, the red checkered tablecloths are only on the service tables, not, for instance, on the booth table where we sat, but close enough.

Certainly the carafe of Chianti we drank could have been lifted from 1960.

We were clearly in the minority as a couple since there were two large parties going on and a steady stream of people arriving with gift-wrapped boxes. When one party-goer overheard Mr. Wright comment to our server that we hadn't been invited to either, he stopped and extended his hospitality right there. His mistake was in mentioning that his group included six children. Thanks, but no thanks.

There's a certain old school charm to a place like the Robin Inn, including the iceberg lettuce salads that got us talking about how maligned iceberg lettuce is these days. Sure, it's just pale green water with almost no nutritional value, but it sure does give good crunch.

Meanwhile, his veal scallopini and spaghetti with meat sauce and my baked manicotti Florentine (c'mon, we had an theme going here) oozing ricotta, spinach, mushrooms and Mozzarella were every bit as filling and mass appeal as you'd expect.

After lingering over such a heavy meal, I defy you to come up with a better way to wile away the evening than listening to Sinatra and enjoying the sweet anise flavor of Sambuca. No, we didn't sip it with the traditional three coffee beans, but it was as good as dessert, especially given that even I, the dessert queen, couldn't possibly have eaten another bite.

Now Mr. Wright is thinking we need more themed movie/dinner/after-dinner drink extravaganzas. I'm warning you, by 2023, there'll be total indulgence. How wonderful everything will be.

No orgies, though.

Skin of My Teeth

My film education continues to unfold nightly.

On the surface, last night's installment of VCU Cinematheque should have been right up my alley. I've gone on record admitting that '60s and '70s movies fascinate me for the shifting cultural mores given voice through Hollywood's eyes.

Of course, the groovy fashions and music don't hurt, either.

So, by all accounts, I should have loved Michelangelo Antonioni's overblown paean to the late '60s counterculture, "Zabriskie Point." Mr. Wright had not only been to Death Valley and spotted the sign for Zabriskie Point, but had already seen the film several times, including as an impressionable young man when it came out. For me, only the title was familiar.

We started at Ipanema and then shifted the action across to the Grace Street Theatre. Both were full of people who weren't alive when Kurt Cobain checked out. Think about that.

When the visiting professor with the German accent got up to introduce the film, he began to wax poetic about the era of student protests and dropping out and turning on, explaining to the clueless student audience that the film was part of a 3-part deal with MGM for the talented Italian director. "Hollywood thought they cold throw big money at Antonioni," he shared and then chuckled in disgust.

Little did they realize that he'd just spend all their money while essentially holding up a giant middle finger to the U.S. To that, I say "well done," although I can see where others might see it as ungrateful and nervy.

Looking around the theater at students born at the tail end of the '90s, the prof instructed them, "Go ask your grandparents about the '70s." If they remember, they weren't there.

It was just too bad that no one had taken the time to explain to these world studies and film students how and why films were being made in 1970. No doubt Antonioni, known for his brilliant framing,  cinematography and use of music, would have been disdainful of students today who simply couldn't fathom a film with an extended orgy scene in the desert (first uncomfortable tittering, followed by outright laughter) or a succession of a dozen shots of a house being blown up from different angles.

And don't get me started on their major sighing at the leisurely pacing of the film, which I loved.

If only MGM hadn't cut Antonioni's original ending - a plane sky-writing "F*ck you, America" - they'd have seen something they could understand. As it stood, they'd need to go ask their grandparents why there were so many bad mustaches in the olden days.

Tonight's lesson in film was much more of a treat because there's a particular pleasure to seeing a Hitchcock movie you've never seen before. Even Mr. Wright was in the dark on this one.

Hello, "Shadow of Doubt," nice to make your acquaintance.

After crispy golden rolls and a banh mi at Sen across from the Byrd, we crossed the street for the 1943 psychological thriller written by Thornton Wilder - yes, he of "Our Town" - that Hitch often referred to as his favorite.

And, if not his favorite, according to Byrd manager Todd, his most plausible story.

Because only Hitch would think that a serial murderer coming to live with his older sister's family in the bucolic town of Santa Rosa and talking an unnatural interest in his namesake niece (knowing Hitch, he probably intended the squirm-worthy implications of Uncle Charlie hitting on his sister's oldest daughter) was perfectly plausible.

Not that I cared. From the opening shot, what had my attention was that I was seeing the actor Henry Travers onscreen as something other than Clarence, the angel, from "It's a Wonderful Life." Like a kindergartner who thinks her teacher lives in the classroom, I just assumed Travers had only played that one role.

The funniest scenes in the movie were those between Travers and a nerdy, young Hume Cronyn (whom I only knew as an old man, so I didn't even recognize him until the credits), neighbors who spent their free time trading ideas for how to murder each other creatively and successfully.

Mainly, I reveled in watching a Hitchcock movie I'd never seen before, taking in every dramatically lit shadow, oddball ceiling angle and telltale hand gesture in a crisply black and white movie with infinite shades of gray.

I was so engrossed I missed Hitchcock's cameo as a bridge player on board a train and had to ask Todd on the way out when he'd been onscreen.

Best of all, there were no tittering students and nobody whining about the film's pacing, although a couple in our aisle walked out after half an hour (I was dying to know why). Everyone who'd come to see "Shadow of Doubt" - and many of us were first-timers, evidenced by Todd asking who'd never seen it and more than half the room raising their hands - accepted the film for the 1943 Hitchcock classic that it was.

And if you don't believe me, go ask your grandparents.

A Natural, Zesty Enterprise

It was like walking into a secret society without knowing the password.

Granted, no reasonably cultured woman of my age should have lived this long without seeing "The Big Lebowski," but I somehow had. And it's not because it was a Coen Brothers film, either, because I've seen plenty of them: "Fargo," "Barton Fink," "No Country for Old Men," "Hail Caesar," "Inside Llewyn Davis," "Raising Arizona," "Blood Simple," "Barton Fink."

Okay, nowhere near all of them, but plenty.

And let's not forget that in 1998, "The Big Lewbowski" was just another Coen Brothers movie and not even a blockbuster at that. Besides having lost my taste for big Hollywood movies by then (I also didn't see "Saving Private Ryan" or "There's Something About Mary" that year), I was busy seeing films like "Shakespeare in Love" and "Run, Lola, Run."

Let the movie snob ribbing begin.

But given how "The Big Lewbowski" has grown in stature to a cult film, I was at least savvy enough to know I needed to see it for the sake of cultural references. I'd been aware that for the past three years the Byrd Theatre had held a "Big LeByrdski" screening, but never made it there. So when I saw that this was the 20th anniversary of the movie, I resolved to up my cultural literacy.

Like I said, I was entering a zone for which I had no credentials. Countless people had come dressed as characters in the movie which means beyond the Dude, I had no idea who they were supposed to be. In theory, they were dressed up so they could participate in the costume contest, but since there were more costumes than participants, I sense that dressing the part was just part of the fun.

Hello "Rocky Horror Picture Show."

Byrd manager Todd not only wore a Dude-like sweater but danced the part before his introduction of the film. He also insisted we chant "The Byrd abides!" three times before instructing the projectionist to start the movie, saying, "Let's see what condition our condition is in!"

The near capacity crowd ate it up with a spoon, belched and ate some more.

They cheered and clapped as soon as the title appeared. They hooted and hollered at the mention of "El Duderino," not surprising since many of them were sucking back Center of the Universe's "El Duderino," a White Russian-inspired beer. And while I should have expected it, they repeated lines verbatim along with the actors on the screen.

I got it, the rug really tied the room together.

A guy in the row behind us also sang every song in the movie, word for word, which got annoying, especially during a Creedence Clearwater Revival song because they're a band I can't stand. On the other hand, I felt a kinship with the Dude when he said, "I hate the f*ckin' Eagles, man," given I've been hating on that band since the '70s. So we had that bond.

Certainly the writing was at times hilarious. When John Goodman's character Walter nonchalantly and maniacally tells the Dude, "You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don't wanna know about it, believe me...Hell, I can get you a toe by 3:00 this afternoon. With nail polish. These f*ckin' amateurs," I was laughing as hard as anyone.

Even an unlikely detail like the Dude's car spoke to me since I took Driver's Ed in an early '70s four door Ford Torino.

But when all was said and done, after taking in the superb casting - I only wished John Turturro's character Jesus had been in more scenes and seeing Phillip Seymour Hoffman as a toadie was mesmerizing - the unexpectedly elaborate dream sequences, the complete surprise of Sam Elliott being in the movie, I was left shrugging.

This is what all the hoopla has been about?

Granted, my reaction might have been different had I seen it in 1998. With several references to Saddam Hussein, Bush and Reagan, it was very much art of its time and certainly the political incorrectness of it placed it squarely in the '90s.

Which is where I shall leave it to rest, having finally, if temporarily, joined the close-knit Lebowski clan for one brief evening. I am not worthy to put on a bathrobe, sip White Russians and recite dialog along with true fans.

Am I wrong? Am I wrong? Okay then.

Gone, But Not Forgotten

Go away for 16 of the past 21 days and it apparently gets noticed.

When I walked into the Byrd Theatre last night to see "Out of Africa," I only got as far as the concession stand before I heard a voice from above call out, "Hey, stranger, nice to see you!" Looking up to the balcony concourse, I saw it was manager Todd giving me a hard time with a smile.

And while I allowed that it had been a solid three weeks since I'd last seen a movie there - "Smokey and the Bandit" as part of a RIP tribute to Burt - the fact is, it had only been two weeks since he'd seen my smiling face when I mistakenly showed up only to find that "L'Avventura" had screened two days earlier.

Either way, it hadn't been all that long.

Tonight, I was in my usual seat at the Grace Street Theatre for VCU Cinematheque's screening of "La Notte" promptly at 6:50, when, as usual, right at 6:59 the Frenchman slid into his usual seat one away from mine, immediately launching into chatter. "Haven't seen you in a while here. Supposed to rain for the Folk Fest this weekend. How're you doing?"

Just fine. Eager to get my Italian film fix on. Now be quiet so we can hear Dr. T. talk about the film. And please don't snore once you fall asleep like you always do.

One person who didn't give me a hard time was Mac when we got together this morning  to walk for the first time in two weeks, but since she's the one who'd taken me to Dulles when I flew out, she'd known exactly where I was. Seems she'd been avidly following the blog in the interim, since she mentioned how much she'd laughed reading about the lunch at Lady Pipi's and the food tour with the mildly crazy guide.

"Out of Africa" turned out to be an ideal movie to ease me back into the Richmond scene with its unhurried pacing, spectacular photography and unconventional love story. Since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1985, I'd forgotten how long it was (2 hours, 50 minutes), not that it mattered because I reveled in the sheer eye candy of it, never mind Meryl Streep's superb performance and how much poetry was recited by the lovers.

And what woman of my age doesn't swoon seeing Robert Redford wash her hair or hear him pitching woo?
You ruined it for me.
What?
Being alone.

Oh, sure, there was also humor - "I'd curtsy, but I'm drunk" - and I was caught up enough that by the final scenes, my eyes were welling up and as the lights came up, people all around me were wiping their eyes or sniffling from crying. That includes the guy sitting alone two seats down in my row.

Tonight's piece of classic Italian cinema from 1961 was introduced when Dr. T. said, "Welcome once again to an event of your life: seeing a Michelangelo Antonioni film on 35 mm!" For years now, I've admired his passion for whatever film he's chosen to show his film students and the rest of us film lovers.

Of course, attending a Cinematheque event also means having to listen to the blather of today's youth before the movie begins. Sample: "I think Jim Carrey is a colossal asshole because he thinks he's talented." And don't get me started on some kid's cellphone ringing loudly during Dr. T's introduction.

Seriously? You're a digital native, you should know how to control your devices, son.

"La Notte" was the polar opposite of "Out of Africa:" shot in black and white, the antithesis of Hollywood and full of underlying commentary about the ennui and dissatisfaction of Italy's upper classes as Italy modernized in the post-war era. The film doesn't start in the elevator of a skyscraper for nothing, you know.

What's always weird at these Cinematheque screenings is how kids today react to certain scenes. When a clearly mentally challenged woman in a hospital tries to seduce Marcello Mastroianni, several nurses rush in to restrain her and begin slapping her face. Students tittered and then giggled at that. A brutal street fight between young men in an empty lot also elicited laughter, as did a love scene.

Then there was the student behind me who during a dramatically composed scene said overly loudly to her companion, "I don't understand what's going on, but that's a beautiful shot." So while human interaction may baffle them, at least they get some of the finer points of filmmaking.

Walking home from Grace Street, there was no question that the nights have gotten cooler in my absence, with the only consolation being that out on my balcony, I had eleven moonflowers blooming tonight. That's a record so far this year, so I'm consoling myself with that.

Well, that and the fact that I saw that my neighborhood crab guys still have crustaceans available.

Don't mind me, I'm just over here trying to hang on to Summer with every fiber of my being. The only downside of being away is finding out that time marches on, even in my absence.

Drat the luck.

Eastbound and Down

So Burt's dead and the least I could do was pay my respects.

When I saw that the Byrd was showing "Smokey and the Bandit," I figured it was just the usual brilliance of the Byrd Theatre in tying films to current events, like when I'd gone to see "Purple Rain" there after Prince died. But no, "Smokey and the Bandit" was also playing at two other Richmond theaters today.

Heck, it was playing at 683 theaters across the country this weekend according to Byrd manager Todd. All hail Burt Reynolds.

And I was far from the only person wanting to pay my respects, either. Arriving ten minutes before the film was to start, I found the theater already surprisingly full and people kept on coming. Now mind you, almost all of these people were alive when the movie had came out originally in 1977, although the couple in front of me claimed that their teens were planning to attend.

Maybe they'd read that "Smokey" was the second highest grossing movie of the year, second only to "Star Wars" and were curious? Doubtful.

During a discussion of the new seats, a woman told me that when she came to the Byrd 30 years ago, there were already springs popping from the chair seats. A man behind me recalled seeing "Singin' in the Rain" at the Byrd decades ago. You get the idea, the audience had all seen this film when it first came out.

But just in case it was anybody's first time with the film, Todd explained how back in the '70s, Coors couldn't be shipped east of the Mississippi legally and taking it there yourself was considered bootlegging. He also said that didn't stop three Presidents from having it shipped to the White House.

Damn executive privilege.

Then Todd roared to the projectionist, "Then Mr. D, take us eastbound and down!" and the Burt tribute began.

If you know me, you know how much I love films from the '70s for the documentation of a world I not only remember well, but get a kick out of seeing again, unlike films made about the '70s, which always get the details wrong.

Details such as Burt's ring and watchband, both made of silver and studded with turquoise, because all the cool kids were wearing it back then. Like Cledus' wife, who when caught at home, is wearing a headful of electric curlers and a halter top. Or even something as simple but long-gone as the spray deodorant Burt sprays under Cledus' arms, despite the fact that he's still wearing his t-shirt.

It seems downright quaint to be reminded of life before we realized we were depleting the ozone with CFCs when we're now experiencing life-threatening climate change as a matter of course.

And everyone, young and old, is wearing bellbottoms, although not everyone's fit them quite the way Burt's did. I'll tell you what, that was one in-shape 41 year old man. Sally Field's jeans, just as molded, caused Cledus to observe, "Nice ass, Bandit" to Burt as he admires her backside.

As befits the decade of the women's movement, it's Sally who responds to Cledus, "Thanks a lot." After all, it's her ass.

Not all the '70s references are warm and fuzzy, though. When Jackie Gleason's character Sheriff Buford T. Justice finally meets a sheriff he'd only spoken to on the CB radio, he's surprised to see he's black and mutters, "What the hell is the world coming to?" The audience responded with dead silence to such a racist statement.

And don't get me started on the confederate plate on the Bandit's Trans Am. Wow, just wow.

When Bandit orders two cheeseburgers and an iced tea at a choke-and-puke (CB code for diner) and the waitress says it'll be $1.50, there was an audible gasp from the audience. I guess no one remembers that McDonald's was charging 40 cents for a cheeseburger in 1977.

Describing how the two of them are the perfect team, Burt names other dynamic duos - Fred and Ginger, Lester and Earl - either of which require a bit of age to recognize. Fortunately, today's audience had that in spades.

It was particularly interesting to me the cultural references in the script because Todd had told us most of it had been improvised.  "You know who's revolutionizing the theater?" Sally asks Burt. "Sondheim!" Later she asks if he's seen "A Chorus Line," which of course he hasn't.

I don't recall, but I'm guessing it was unusual in 1977 for dialog to reference groundbreaking theater in a blockbuster action comedy with a mustachioed star who beaks the fourth wall with a shit-eating grin.

But as we children of the '70s know, the kind of man willing to be Cosmo's first male centerfold could do whatever he wanted. Seeing him in his prime was a fine reminder of how much fun he had doing it, clothed or unclothed.

Because at the end of a life, what better way to measure it than in enjoyment? Burt, I'm in full agreement with you there.

Heat of the Moment

Let's talk hot, shall we?

Mac and I dutifully trudged to the river to walk even though we knew we couldn't cool off in the water because neither of us knew if e. coli was still an issue after all the media attention the high levels got a few weeks back.

Ordinarily, we'd get as far as the pipeline and either climb rocks to find a spot to put our legs in the water or dismount the walkway at one of the little beaches and wade out to cool off. Today we had to make do with the new Native American monument in Capital Square which conveniently has a water feature burbling out of its center. I couldn't resist sitting down on the water-covered surface while the more circumspect Mac just leaned in to wet her hands, meaning I had to finish the last mile with my shorts soaked in the back.

If I looked like I'd wet my pants I was okay with that because wet shorts are cooler than dry shorts. No shame here.

Driving down Broad Street this afternoon to run errands, I saw one digital clock that read 102 degrees and another that read 108. Even splitting the difference, that's still 105 degrees. Meanwhile, back in my apartment, the temperature has been stuck at 94 for the past ten hours, although that doesn't take into account the humidity which makes it feel far hotter than a mere 94.

Even so, I'm not complaining about the heat. Granted, it's the hottest day of the year so far but I'm the one who chooses to live without air conditioning (proudly, in fact) and let's not forget that summer is supposed to be hot, humid and sweaty weather. Sorry, kids, but it's just not natural to be comfortably cool in July in Richmond.

Hello, that's why seersucker, sundresses and the south were invented.

But I'm also not too proud to admit that I didn't hesitate to spend two hours at the movies to escape the heat this evening, just like people have been doing since the 1920s when theaters began advertising their air conditioned interiors.

Tonight was the kickoff of the Byrd Theatre's month-long tribute to Wes Anderson with his debut feature, "Bottle Rocket." Given how well attended it was, I have to assume there are a lot of Anderson fans stuck in town for the July fourth holiday since I'm quite sure I was the lone attendee to have central a/c at home and choose not to use it.

For anyone who cares about the full story, I turned my back on air conditioning in 1993 for myriad reasons - the environment, the cost, the unnaturalness of it - and never looked back. That decision dictates that I sleep under a ceiling fan with two other fans pointed directly at me and occasionally forces me into a heat nap, but that's a small price to pay.

Part heist movie, part buddy film and visually a precursor to the celebrated Wes Anderson "look" he developed with his films, "Bottle Rocket" not only provided a respite from the heat but a slew of laugh out loud dialog ("Wow, you're really complicated." "I try not to be.") and - wait for it - multiple scenes shot inside and outside Frank Lloyd Wright's John Gillin residence in Dallas, the last Usonian house built before he died and the largest.

So, you see, I wasn't just catching a break from the heat, I was upping my architectural literacy. Like I do.

And now I'm back in J-Ward, all the street lights are out for some reason and it's still 94 degrees in my apartment. I call that another glorious summer night in the city.

What a Time We Had

Few can stretch out a birthday like I can. And when it's not mine, I can assist.

The last couple nights have been devoted to helping Pru celebrate her birthday because what are friends for?

Her actual birthday was Monday, but she'd inadvertently made plans with a neighborhood friend that night. It was just as well since Beau is out of town and wasn't here to squire her to a proper birthday dinner anyway. But given his devotion to her, he did the next best thing, enlisting me to pick up dinner and report to the manse to share it with Pru and the Queen.

Dinamo supplied the feast: beet and fennel salad, crostini with chicken livers, fish soup and four pizzas, two white, two red. If it sounds like a lot for three women, remember, it was a birthday celebration and don't judge.

To further the festivities, that also meant Moet et Chandon Imperial "Golden Diamond Suit" Champagne because a birthday rates a bottle of bubbly in a fancy zip-up sweater. The Queen of Soul provided the soundtrack, beginning, appropriately enough, with "Respect."

With nothing but us girls, we settled in with plates piled high, flutes filled with bubbles and prolonged conversation. Pru had informed me that she was looking for news from me and I'd have to say I delivered in spades. That's not to say I didn't take a fair amount of admonishment for my slower-than-necessary pace, but, let's face it, I'm a bit out of practice when it comes to matters of the heart.

These days, everyone's so ridiculously excited for me and still, no one's happiness can begin to approach mine. And I'm not even the birthday girl.

Pru and I continued the celebration tonight at the Byrd to see "The African Queen," a 1951 gem I saw so long ago I barely remembered it.

We were tearing into our large popcorn, discussing how some people pour their chocolate into the popcorn tub when the man seated next to me nudged me and said, "I already did that." Sure enough, his peanut M & Ms were dotted on top of his popcorn, a rookie mistake. Sir, you have to eat the popcorn down a few inches and then insert the candy, as we demonstrated.

No offense, but who didn't learn this lesson as a child?

From the opening shots, the film was so gloriously Technicolor as to look like a '50s picture postcard, unbelievably vivid and strikingly colorful. All that post-war optimism, I guess.

Next I got a history lesson when the credit told us we were in "German East Africa," a colony I hadn't known existed. Belgians in the Congo I knew about, but Methodists in the African Great Lakes? Nope, not a clue.

My faint memories of the movie ensured that I had no recollection how quickly Rosie Sayer and Charlie Allnut became allies and then enamored of each other. In my admittedly hazy memory, they fought almost until the end. Not so.

Before the film began, Byrd manager Todd had told us Bogie had won his only Oscar for this role and  it wasn't hard to see why. Instead of playing suave and urbane, here he was a man who worked with his hands, respected his betters and was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish their mission.

Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.

That he recognized a good woman when he saw one (even one who poured out all his gin) moved him from character actor (calling her "a skinny old maid") to charming leading man (It's great to have a lady aboard with clean habits), at least in this woman's eyes.

Dear? Dear? What is your first name?

Todd had also mentioned that the leeches used were real leeches, meaning that when Bogie emerged from the water covered in them, there was no way I could look at the screen as they were removed. If nothing else, the man deserved an Oscar for enduring that for the sake of a role. Tell me what current actor would allow such a thing. Go on, I'll wait.

And, of course, being a 1950s Technicolor Hollywood movie (albeit one mostly filmed on location, a rarity for the time), there was a fair amount of disbelief to be suspended when the usual implausible things happened.

Who do you think you are ordering me about?

When the African Queen gets stuck in the reeds before dusk and they wake up to find that it's rained so hard that the boat has moved back into the river, there is zero water in the boat. It's practically a Methodist miracle.

I never dreamed that any mere physical experience could be so stimulating.

Or once they decide to torpedo the German boat, Rosie raises the Union Jack, except where did that perfect flag come from? Surely she hadn't packed a flag along with her umbrella and Bible, right?

And don't get me started on the endless supply of tea and sugar on that rickety old boat. Just more reasons why I adore seeing these old movies on the big screen. Besides the obvious, that is.

Have you heard the news? I'm a sucker for a love story, even when it's dressed in adventure clothing.

Fancy me a heroine.

Found in Translation

And another French Film Festival is in the rear-view mirror of the Peugeot.

It may not have been my best work - I made it to a film a day for four days - but this year's festival will be memorable for the pleasure of sitting in the Byrd's new seats all four nights and...drum roll, please... having had a date for two of the films, a first unless you count girlfriends.

And they count, but this is different.

Two of the films -"Les Gardiennes" and "Cessez-le-feu" - had World War I themes and settings, little surprise given that 2018 is the centennial of the end of the Great War, but which also meant both contained war scenes that necessitated me closing my eyes to avoid seeing horrible things.

My inner documentary dork was well fed with "Un Francais Nomme Gabin," the story of France's most iconic actor and a man I'd never heard of, Jean Gabin. That he'd made 95 films meant that the documentary-maker had a treasure trove of images and interviews to tell the star's life story.

Although I'm not sure I'm buying that he'd have rather been a farmer. Talk is cheap once you're a star. That's like saying, "I wasn't really hungry for that hot fudge sundae" after you've devoured it. Easy to say, hard to believe.

Arriving early for "Cessez-le-feu," I caught the Q&A after "Du Soleiel dans Mes Yeux," notable because FFF founder and host Peter Kirkpatrick translated what director Nicolas Giraud was saying and afterward, Giroux commended Peter for "not only conveying my words but my emotions as well." They even hugged on it.

Later, when "Cessez-le-feu's" director Emmanuel Courcol came up to introduce his film, he spoke French, saying, "I speak perfect English, but I want Peter to translate for me." That got a major laugh.

Between translations, I chatted with a woman in the row behind me today when I overheard her and some friends discussing the Gabin film. Next thing you know, she's telling me that much as she loves French film, Italian film is her favorite, so I bring up "Call Me By Your Name," which she's yet to see.

Then she explains why Italian is best for her, that she comes by it honestly. Seems once she and her husband retired, they moved to a small hill town at the base of the Alps near Milan and lived there for a year and a half. "It changed my life, changed me," she shared. "I recommend it highly."

I hear you, ma'am.

A young woman took the empty seat next to me as the presentation of the French delegation and volunteers was beginning, but she was so focused on her phone that when the audience began applauding the festival's accomplishments, she continued to scroll with her left hand and snap her fingers with her right, a Beat-like concession to what was going on.

Byrd manager Todd was called up and provided a stirring, scenery-chewing speech about the legacy of the Byrd and the FFF. Likening the combination to one of the city's must-see monuments, he intoned, "The French Film Festival and delegation is an annual monumental achievement and deserves to be recognized as such!" Clap, clap, clap.

"Cessez-le-feu" had all the makings of a fine Sunday afternoon romance, what with a bearded war hero just back from the trenches and a lovely sign language teacher who falls for him just when he could really use it. Once they've acknowledged it's mutual, he insists that it's time to be selfish.

That would be selfish, but in the grand, romantic tradition. As in, it's all about you and me, baby, and to hell with the rest of the world. This is still an option in 2018, right?

"Be selfish with me," she says back. "Let's be selfish together!" he responds, one-upping her. When he entreats her to return to Africa with him, she has to remind him that she hardly knows him. Clearly she hadn't gotten the memo about living for today after the uncertainties of war.

The way I see it, selfishness is something you earn with life experience and best when accompanied by the good fortune of finding the right person.Because doing so is nothing short of a monumental achievement.

And I heard from someone who knows that it deserves to be recognized as such.

Some Kind of a Man

Blue skies weren't necessary today when we woke up to a blue victory.

On this gray and soggy day, it was all anybody was talking about on Facebook, so I shouldn't have been surprised to hear from my Dad - from whom I get my tendency to have an opinion on everything - on the subject.

"Nice result! Glad to see the Commonwealth took the high road. Personally, I was dubious about all last week's FAKE NEWS about how Gillespie was almost dead even. Couldn't see it. Yucky weather. Have a good one."

Just last night I'd invoked my Dad's name while I was at the Valentine's community conversation about voting. Each of the participants was asked to share how voting was handled in our families growing up, so I'd told my seatmate that both my parents follow politics closely and voting was taken seriously in our house.

So seriously that my sisters and I were told not to consider dating a guy who didn't vote - perish the thought - much less bring one home to meet Mom and Dad.

I was well into middle age before I - gasp! - did start dating a man who not only didn't vote, he'd never even registered to vote. Fortunately, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation when I explained the family rule and registered forthwith so he could cast a vote in the 2012 election.

Needless to say, I never told my parents.

Responding to Dad's message, I told him I thought it sent a message to the narcissist-in-chief as well as the rest of the country. I went on, "A gray, depressing day but with encouraging and hopeful news...I'll take it! But I already miss wearing shorts on my walk."

Without missing a beat, he shot back, "The eyeballers probably do as well...lol! Now if the Dems can sustain this momentum. Ciao!"

The eyeballers? Only my father can crack me up, then bring it back around to what's important: politics.

What did seem ideal for the damp, dreary cold was film noir, especially one described as "A truly great flick with Orson Welles at his obese, dissipated best," although neither of the friends I invited were free (although one got points for acknowledging, "What could better complement the weather?").

That much was clear by the decent-size crowd that assembled at the Byrd for "Touch of Evil," in which we got a Welles hat trick: he starred, wrote and directed the 1958 film. Although why he chose to have Charlton Heston playing a Mexican we'll never know.

The Byrd's manager Todd clued us in to the extended opening shot, considered to be so masterfully executed that it alone caused generations of people to want to become cinematographers. He also shared that the film had been finished by Welles to his satisfaction, recut by Universal Studios to his dissatisfaction and then a third version reassembled in 1998 using a 58-page memo from Welles' after his original cut was lost.

"So you're seeing a film that's part Welles, part Universal and part '50s," he warned us. The '50s elements were glaring: the young Mexican men wore leather jackets and sideburns, listened to loud rock and roll music and smoked reefers while Janet Leigh's undergarments shaped her breasts into sharp, conical points that could have cut glass.

In fact, every shot of her was a '50s man's dream of a hot woman, from her fitted clothes and sexy lingerie to her wanton scenes with her blond hair loose in bed, or on a fire escape with nothing but a sheet wrapped around her.

Titillation was so much simpler in those days.

And film noir, well, that was so much better then, too. Evil was obvious and good guys realized when they hadn't kissed their woman in the past hour and did so no matter where they were.

The eyeballers must have loved that.

Melodrama for Spinsters

"Maybe you should just become a lesbian."

I expected several things from my Wednesday night out with Pru - a nice dinner, an award-winning movie, Tootsie Rolls, plenty of girl talk - but not a suggestion that I switch teams.

We arrived at Acacia to find the bar full up, so we made do in chairs. "I know you prefer the bar, but this way we can talk face to face instead of side by side," she cajoled as we headed to a nearby table. The only problem with the table, we discovered, was that the server was tall and our seats were low, and frequently his questions and comments landed somewhere imperceptible over our heads.

Pru's poison of choice was a Monkey Shoulder ("Which is different than a monkey on your back, that's drugs," she joked) while I sipped a jewel-toned elixir of beet juice, sage and citrus that the barman had concocted for me after a request for something complicated yet sassy.

Yet again I succumbed to the bar menu, seduced by the market fish, tonight rockfish, and a stellar salad of mixed greens, matchsticks of Granny Smith apples, golden raisins and tons of cashews dressed in a celery seed vinaigrette that amplified the salad's flavors rather than drowning them in dressing. As always, the rockfish was cooked to perfection and a side of toothsome brussels sprouts finished out the meal.

It was over dinner that Pru again steered the conversation to my personal life, accusing me of flipping my priorities from what she'd last heard they were. As I reminded her, you don't know what you're willing to compromise on until you try and fail.

Responding to her suggestion that I try batting for the other team, I expressed reservations. "Oh, they have solutions for that!" she assured me. Like with so many other things, she has far more experience in certain arenas than I ever will.

And one of the arenas she'll let me mention is classic film. Appalled when I admitted that I'd never seen the Ingrid Bergman/Charles Boyer masterpiece "Gaslight," she immediately volunteered to join me for the Byrd's screening, part of their film noir series this month.

As I assured her, I know what the term "gaslighting" means, and even the source of the term, I just hadn't seen the actual film (based on a play) from which it had sprung. Thank heavens the Byrd is there to raise my cultural literacy as often as it does.

Given that there was a good-sized crowd there tonight, I'm betting that I wasn't the only "Gaslight" virgin in house. We slid into our seats moments before an Amazon-sized woman sat down directly in front of Pru, but we weren't shy about grabbing our popcorn and moving a few rows down in front of them.

Seeing Ingrid Bergman at 29 was especially compelling since I'd just seen her just last week in "Autumn Sonata," filmed when she was 63, and I don't care how beautiful you are (and she was) or how well you take care of yourself, there's a world of difference between how you look at those ages.

Add to that incredible beauty her Oscar-winning performance and it was a given that she was going to be part of the reason I was entranced by "Gaslight," with its moody lighting and shadowy cinematography. For obvious reasons, I didn't tell Pru, but my only frame of reference for Charles Boyer was an "I Love Lucy" episode, so I was unprepared for what he could convey with those hooded eyelids and apathetic looks.

I was totally caught up in the story when somebody's phone began ringing and finally the guy two rows in front of us silenced it but continued texting (ping! ping!), the phone's light sending up an obnoxious beacon to all of us around him. The guy sitting directly in front of us did his best to make him stop, exaggeratedly clearing his throat repeatedly, but the jerk took his time winding down his conversation.

To quote the Byrd's iconic litter promo, some people need parental guidance.

The movie ended so satisfyingly with the evil husband tied to a chair in the attic and our heroine toying with him like a mouse, brandishing a knife and showing him that two could play at being the psychological abuser. Nice twist for 1944.

We walked out talking about how it had taken me almost until the final scene to realize that the maid had been played by a very young Angela Lansbury, despite Pru having commented during the opening credits, "Oh! I forgot Angela Lansbury was in this."

Honestly, I didn't even recognize her. 

That failure on my part only made it more pathetic when we were walking out and I spotted a poster for an upcoming screening of "The Big Lebowski," mentioning oh-so casually that I'd never seen that, either.

Fortunately, I hear the Byrd has solutions for that, too.

Daybreak Ain't No Time for Gullibility

Talk about your unlikely double feature after eating a musician's pie...

For those of us who've been eagerly following the dough-making journey of a certain local percussionist for months, the payoff finally arrived last Thursday when he announced to the Facebook world, "It happens tomorrow! Come and kick my ass! Please!"

"It" was the pizza-making operation at the new Galley Market and the photo he posted showed stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, so, sure, I was curious, although southside isn't exactly part of my regular rotation. Then he posted a picture of his Bianca pizza with house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil and I couldn't schedule a time to get over there soon enough.

As it happened, tonight I was headed to southside for the final installment of the International Film Series and what could be more perfect than pie to sustain me through two movies?

After ordering from the cashier, I nabbed a stool at the counter to wait for my Bianca to emerge from the oven. To kill time, I picked up the Richmond Times Disgrace laying on the counter only to see some editorial adjustments to a front page article.

A headline that read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in Certain Cases?" had been altered to read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in All Cases?" with the word "YES!" scribbled at the end of the question. No, tell us how you really feel.

I glanced at my horoscope for today - "Gemini, gullibility will be your downfall"- and decided I didn't need to to be told the obvious yet again. Fortunately, my pie arrived and I have to say, Giustino knows how to make a damn good pie: the crust was as satisfyingly chewy as a good baguette and the cheeses were portioned exactly right with just a hint of Gorgonzola on the finish.

Oh, great, now I'm going to have to drive to southside for really excellent pizza.

I only had to drive back to Westover Hills to see the black and white 1955 film, "Death of a Cyclist," which, being mid-century Spanish (and directed/written by Javier Bardem's uncle), managed to roll adultery, a hit and run, a grading scandal at university and a whole lot of metaphors about Franco and the hollowness of war - with a lot of moody Hitchcockian cinematography and a dash or two of film noir tropes - into a completely engrossing realist film about guilt and class.

Of course, in 1955, there was no getting away with misdeeds without punishment, so our adulterers and murderers paid the ultimate price (with a solid dose of Catholicism for good measure) for breaking multiple commandments.

But woman does not live by pizza and realism alone, so I wound up at the Byrd Theatre standing in line outside waiting for the theater to clear and freezing while doing it. Around me, fools in short sleeves shivered visibly.

The first distraction was the organizers of tonight's event coming by to give everyone a raffle ticket for a chance to win a free ticket to see John Waters when he comes to the Byrd to do his Christmas show.

Then there were the inane conversations I had no choice but to overhear. In front of me were two people arguing whether mushrooms counted as a veggie or a fungus, a disagreement they gave up only when she mentioned she was wearing a Dad sweater for warmth.

"It's a nice sweater, so why isn't your Dad still wearing it?" the bearded one inquired of the "Cosby" show-era relic. "Cause it's from the '80s and you don't get to wear it in the '80s and still wear it," she explained matter-of-factly. "So only 20-somethings can wear Dad sweaters now?" he wondered. "Right. He's 65, so he can't wear this," she proclaimed, ending the conversation.

You can only imagine how glad I was that the line began moving to go inside. Soon I was comfortably ensconced in one of the new seats for a black comedy crime film courtesy of Movie Club Richmond's screening of the John Waters classic, "Serial Mom."

Next to me was a young woman who recently moved here from Alabama and had come to see her second John Waters movie, "Crybaby" having been the first. I advised her to go back further in his catalog and see what John Waters' films were like before he rated Hollywood stars and bigger budgets.

When it came time to pull raffle tickets, manager Todd strolled up the aisle to get a patron to pull one out of the popcorn bucket. "I know exactly who I can ask to do it," he said, heading directly to me. It was probably a good thing that I didn't pull my own number.

I hadn't seen "Serial Mom" since it came out in 1994, so while I recalled the basic premise, I'd forgotten just how graphic and dark it was when bodies began stacking up almost from the movie's beginning. I know for sure that the quintet sitting behind me weren't prepared for such a black comedy as they continually commented on what was happening as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes.

My guess is they hadn't even seen "Crybaby."

One thing that occurred to me as the saga unfolded was how dated some of the references were, to the point that many millennials probably didn't get them at all. Richard Speck? Premiere magazine? Jason Priestly? Franklin Mint? Did they even recognize the Barry Manilow song "Daybreak?"

And you should have heard the groans when a character at the video store said how much she liked Bill Cosby's funny films. Way too soon.

But I have to admit I wasn't without knowledge myself. When I first saw the movie, I'd only just barely learned who L7 was, so I got a kick out of seeing them perform as Camel Lips during the raucous club scene.

Perhaps most interestingly of all, unlike the Spanish realism I'd enjoyed earlier, this was a movie with a psychotic central character, much use of the "pussy" word and no retribution for bad behavior whatsoever.

Sort of reminded me of our current administration. Leave it to John Waters to predict the future.

Green Glass Love

Forget what Morrissey says, every day is not like Sunday, especially a gorgeous 75-degree Sunday.

I wanted to be at the water - ocean, river, bay, any large body would've sufficed - but work prevented that kind of pleasure. So I settled for a summer reprise, albeit indoors, and was grateful for that.

Curious about Little Saint after seeing several friends post about the new restaurant, I made that my first stop. And while I'd have liked to have roosted on the patio, the small children there changed my mind and I landed at the bar instead.

The space looks great, from the large art installation made of dried mosses and plants the owner had made to the most beautiful ladies' room in all of Richmond boasting locally designed wallpaper of yellow cabbage roses covering walls and ceiling.

Behind the bar was a San Francisco transplant who'd landed here after tiring of the struggle to keep up financially there and wanting some place up and coming but already cool. Here you are, kid, welcome to town.

Dinner was a farm lettuce salad of arugula and dandelion greens with a bit of pickled onion, just the ideal savory start before moving on to the subtle sweetness of pickled beet puree over ricotta on Idle Hands sourdough bread. And although I didn't need a dessert after that, I completely appreciate that their desserts are scaled to be about three bites, aka, the perfect size to satisfy but not induce guilt.

Who am I kidding, I have no shame about hoovering dessert any chance I get.

I walked into the Byrd to be teased by the manager (again) about how frequently we see each other (it had been less than 21 hours) and join the audience of theater fans to see the cast of Dogwood Dell perform the songs from this summer's run of "Thoroughly Modern Millie."

Had my summer not been quite so busy, I'd have made it to the Dell amphitheater and seen it myself (accompanied by a picnic basket and bottle o' Rose or bubbles, in all likelihood), but at least I was finally getting a chance to up my cultural IQ (because of course I'd never seen it, play or movie) as part of Artober, which I'm totally digging this year.

Honestly, it was more of an immersion course in "TMM" because after the cast performed all the songs accompanied by live musicians, they were going to show the '60s film version, too. Two birds, one stone and all that.

The story of a Kansas girl who moves to New York City, gets her hair bobbed, wears short skirts and strives to be seen as a "modern," as she puts it, had a subplot about white slavery. I'm here to tell you that it was far more satisfying in the play version than the told-through-the-lens-of-1967-movie one, especially with director George Roy Hill's corny embellishments.

Favorite line: "Poor sounds permanent, broke can be fixed."

Pshaw, tell this modern something she didn't already know. Then give her no deadlines and another brilliantly sunny day to indulge herself.

Fall sounds permanent, but sunny days like today make it tolerable. Almost, anyway.

Conjugating Some Irregular Verbs

As travel posters go, it was succinct: If you love life, you'll love France.

And if I want to see a classic Hitchcock movie for the first time, the Byrd is the place to see it. But the starting point for tonight's outing wasn't a movie, it was a lecture, "The Art of Jewelry through the Ages," which just happened to be at the Byrd Theater and just happened to include a screening of Hitch's "To Catch a Thief."

Since I've only been wearing jewelry for a just over a year, you can bet I wasn't the one who noticed the lecture was happening. But Pru did, rounding up her jewelry-making mother, Beau and I for an evening devoted to personal ornamentation and sparkly things.

Naturally, she planned for the evening to begin with dinner, which is how we landed at Spoonbread Bistro for a butter and bacon-soaked meal not long after they opened their doors. Early enough that the piped-in music didn't even come on until after we were seated.

The happy couple was feeling autumnal and wanted a bottle of Bouchard Pere et Fils Reserve Pinot Noir, but I'm still lamenting summer's recent departure and instead opted for Treveri Sparkling Gewurztraminer. By itself, it was underwhelming but once the amuse bouche of creamy crab and salmon on an edible spoon showed up, it showed its true colors as a lovely food wine.

It had been six months since I'd last eaten there and the menu was identical, so choosing what I wanted took some time. Our meal was obscene, as meals at Spoonbread tend to be, with Beau and I each starting with a special of roasted beets over greens in a blood-orange vinaigrette with a golf ball-sized round of cashewed goat cheese.

My seared scallops over corn pudding with bacon drizzle were as rich as I remembered, while I also managed to score bites of Pru's steak and lobster and Beau's sea bass. As for the jewelry maker's rockfish with butter-poached lobster tail, well, that never made it to my side of the table, not that I needed it.

Dinner conversation revolved around #me, too because Pru had noticed my status and reminded me of a conversation the four of us had a year or so ago when Beau had been surprised to learn that all three of us had been sexually harassed or assaulted.

We discussed men's role in all this and Beau stated for the record that he did not want to speak as a representative for his people. I can't blame him.

After sipping, eating and gabbing so long - Pru insisted I taste the Pinot Noir -  we were suddenly in a hurry to make it to the Byrd in time for the lecture and film, both part of Artober, a month-long celebration of art all over town.

The womenfolk were barely in our (comfortable, wide, new) seats while Beau parked the car when we struck up a conversation with the woman two seats down. Pru explained that we were waiting for a man to buy us sweets and the woman, already munching on Snowcaps, sniffed and said, "Usually I make more money than the men I date, so I buy my own."

Lucky for us, we didn't have to because Beau was so gracious as to supply us with buttered popcorn and Milk Duds to tide us over, not that any of us were the least bit hungry. It's more about a Pavlovian response to being in a movie theater.

Tonight's event was sponsored by Carreras Jewelers and cards were handed to each attendee for 10% off a purchase - as if I ever bought any jewelry new - and Bygones, next door to the Byrd.

A Carreras jeweler took us through a fascinating slide show on the history of jewelry, tracing it from the Neolithic period to Greek and Roman times through the Egyptians and the Renaissance, while stressing why jewelry was so desirable: it was made of precious things, it was decorative and, early on, rare.

I was fascinated to learn that originally, jewelry was worn only at night when the light of candles made it look extremely sparkly. He told us about sentimental jewelry (with human hair woven into it...blech) and mourning jewelry (and, by the way, in the 19th century, women were expected to mourn for 2 years while men got off with 6 months...the gender disparities go back to the big bang, apparently).

He got us up to the 1920s and Art Nouveau before the owner of Bygones took over, sharing the history of costume jewelry in the 20th century, notable because it was then that jewelry began to be thought of as art rather than as a sign of wealth.

Whew, otherwise I still wouldn't be wearing it.

Coco Chanel helped turn the tide on that. And, in a nice segue to the film, she told us that the jewelry shown in "To Catch a Thief" had become available in department stores once the movie came out. Not that any of it would look like it did on Grace Kelly, but an Eisenhower-era woman could hope, couldn't she?

Then it was time for the film and, to our amazement, half the audience left because the lecture was over. Who walks out of a chance to see a free Hitchcock movie set in France on the big screen?

Neanderthals, that's who.

Manager Todd introduced the film, reminding us that Hitch filmed his murder scenes like love scenes and his love scenes like murder scenes. "Story of my life," Pru whispered. The woman cracks me up.

I'd been under the mistaken impression that I'd seen this movie before, but not long in, I realized it was all new to me. From the opening shot of a travel agency window full of wonderful mid-century travel posters (talk about art!) to a woman's cotton bathing suit that zipped up the back, it was an ode to another time.

In fact, all the costumes were fabulous because Edith Head designed them and what doesn't look good on Grace Kelly? Even her roadster was beautiful.

Of course, the best part of the story was the budding romance between the one-time jewelry thief and the gorgeous rich girl with attitude. Well, that and seeing Cary Grant in swimming trunks. Oh, yes, and the banter, that was excellent.

You're here in Europe to buy a husband.
The man I want doesn't have a price.
That eliminates me.

Only after the movie came to its logical 1955 solution - love with the promise of marriage - did I share with my posse that it had been my first time. Hell, after the spate of jewelry robberies when Cary Grant's character had said he'd been a reformed thief for 15 years, I wasn't sure if he was lying or not.

That's how clueless I was.

Not only did I enjoy that kiss last night, I was awed by its efficiency.

If you love life, you'll love edible spoons, nerdy art lectures and classic Hitchcock movies on the big screen. Kisses, efficient or otherwise, are also high on the list.

Story of my life.

Paying Our Respects

Carytown is in the eye of the beholder.

Now you take someone like me, for instance, someone who's lived in Richmond for 30 years.  Generally speaking, I avoid that stretch of Cary Street because of the hordes of suburbanites and tourists who make a habit of endlessly traipsing up and down both sides of the street.

Except, that is, when there's a reading or I need a book because Chop Suey Books rocks. Except when I need a card and head directly to Mongrel because no store in Richmond compares with their selection of offbeat cards for all occasions. And except for the Byrd Theater because everyone needs a vintage movie palace.

But beyond that, not so much.

But you take someone like author Zach Powers and he sees Carytown as everything that doesn't exist in the far-flung Fairfax suburb he calls home. Tonight he told the crowd that he'd been thrilled to see the shops, restaurants and vibrancy of the area when he pulled up for the reading he was about to give.

And here I was thinking it was just another Monday night park-once-party-twice kind of Richmond evening.

I arrived at Chop Suey early enough to thumb through a new biography of Anne Bancroft to find the section about the making of "The Graduate," which I'd seen just last week.

There were some fascinating tidbits there. Now I know that the scene where Mrs. Robinson takes a drag on her cigarette just before Benjamin kisses her and then exhales mightily afterward came from an old Mike Nichols/Elaine May comedy routine.

Lindsay Chudzik led off reading from one of her short stories about a guy who rehabs houses to resemble TV houses like the ones on "Full House" or "Golden Girls" and the woman who was trying to beat him at his game.

Best line: "It didn't matter if the experience was authentic, as long as people thought it was." If that isn't a succinct summation of the world we live in, I don't know what is.

She then introduced her friend Zach who, after rhapsodizing about finally stopping in Richmond after years of driving past it as well as the allure of Carytown ("I miss this so much"), admitted that he wrote weird stories.

To prove it, he read several of them from his recent book, "Gravity Changes," including two about being in love with inanimate objects: the moon and a light bulb. The latter produced wonderful imagery - "Dry leaves rasped against her ass" - and a tragic ending when the light bulb he married fell down the steps and he was left holding just a shard of her.

As if that weren't enough to convince us of his weirdness, he threw in "Neil Armstrong, Folk Hero" about a 3-year old Neil planting apple seeds on the moon. Because of course he was a huge Neil Armstrong fan.

Once the reading ended, I had almost half an hour until the movie started, so my plan was to go to Mongrel and leisurely shop for some cards I needed. That plan was scuttled when I walked out of the book store and saw a line snaking down Cary Street from the Byrd's box office to Mongrel.

Knowing that the box office wasn't even open for 15 minutes, I thought it wise to join the line. Ten minutes later, it extended to the end of the block and the box office still wasn't open.

The funny part of all this is, I'd had no idea that the movie I was going to see was that big a deal. Or even a small deal. I figured it out based on the growing crowd size and the number of people taking selfies in front of the marquee.

The reason for my ignorance is simple: Hayao Miyazaki's "My Neighbor Totoro" was my first anime film. Ever. And if you want the whole truth, I didn't know it was anime until I got in line and saw the poster.

And the hilarious part of that poster is that it was in Italian. And since raffling off the movie poster is always part of these repertory nights at the Byrd, that means some lucky person named Juan Lopez won an Italian poster of a Japanese movie being shown on Miyazaki Monday.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

Once I finally scored a ticket and made it inside, I began running into arty 30-something friends. Given that the film was made in 1988, I'm guessing it was part of their youth.

Inside the theater, manager Todd updated us on the progress of the new seats as I sat in one of the old ones complete with torn, ratty fabric and a spring jabbing me in the leg.

Hallelujah, installation begins tomorrow. That said, I'll believe it when I sit in it.

As for the film, I'm not kidding, I think I was part of the 1% who'd never seen "My Neighbor Totoro" because when he announced that he was showing it in Japanese with subtitles, applause broke out. Apparently true Miyazaki fans want nothing to do with the dubbed version Disney did in 2006.

As an anime virgin, I didn't expect to enjoy the film nearly as much as I did.

From the impressionistic background of the Japanese countryside to the sweet depiction of older and younger sisters to a father who takes everything in stride - that their new house is haunted, that the youngest daughter has seen a magical forest creature, that children let out to play on their own will eventually return - I was completely sucked in by the story.

Any Dad who tells his daughters that laughter keeps the bogeyman away is a very good parent and any parent who asks their child's imaginary woodland creature to watch over her is a great one.

Just as impressive were the ecological undertones about man and nature co-existing peacefully and the very Japanese-ness of the story: the family bathes communally, the children show respect for all adults and devotion to family underpins everything. Nobody whines.

Best of all, the nearly sold out crowd watched the movie in polite silence, allowing those of us first-timers to hear every word of the perfectly charming story without disruption.

Got my anime cherry popped tonight. And to think that it happened on Cary Street...