Pegboard and Yarmulkes

Tonight was all about the round and the Jewish.

Modern Richmond was opening the doors on the infamous round building at the corner of Thompson and Floyd and as a former Floyd Avenue denizen for 13 years, I was understandably curious about a place I've been by literally thousands of times.

Apparently so were a lot of other people, since I arrived at 5:34 (doors opened at 5:30) and found the 1954 round building, which had originally been built as medical offices, already getting crowded with fans of modernism.

Walking through that magnificent wooden door led to a semi-circular lobby with the original curved benches on one wall and a water feature facing it. At the moment, there's no water, just a curved blue mat to suggest water, but I heard someone say that Ellwood Thompson, the new owners of the building, are planning to restore the water feature. In front of the benches was a low coffee table that echoed the curves of the benches and wall and had been hand-crafted by the doctor's son.

It all looked like something from a '50s movie.

One guy walked in and immediately got a goofy grin on his face. "This was my doctor!" he shared, meaning he knew what it had looked like before ET had renovated it. I give ET credit, though, because they'd remained mostly faithful to the original design, as evidenced by some of the linoleum flooring and blue pegboard cabinet doors.

But easily the most fascinating part of the interior was the ephemera, all framed and hanging on the circular walls. A December 31, 1954 invoice from Laburnum Construction Corporation showing charges of $50,346.00. A drawing of a proposed addition (fortunately never executed)  that looked like a growth three bubbles attached to the back of the building. Letters from architect to assistant about contract bids. And plenty of black and white photographs of the building and interior back when the surrounding trees were young and skinny.

Making my way through the back patio, I overheard a man ask the bartender in the event he used both his drink tickets (which came with the price of admission), would it be possible for him to buy more? Kind of makes you wonder how much he was enjoying modernism if he needed an alcohol drip, but I don't judge. In fact, when I got ready to leave, I found him chatting with a woman and without explanation, handed him my two drink tickets.

"What's this?" he said, confused but looking pleased. Heard you might need some more drinks, I told him, and I'm not using mine. In return, he gave me the full-on grateful stranger smile and I could leave, knowing I had done my good deed for the day. Or enabled a problem drinker, whichever.

After dropping off the car at home, I walked over to VCU Cabell Library for author Jonathan Sarna's lecture on his book, "Lincoln and the Jews." And if I thought Modern Richmond was crowded, you should've seen the overflow masses for the lecture. Additional chairs had to be brought out.

I found one of the very few single seats available and chatted up my seatmate, who, like me, came to Richmond 30 years ago, except after growing up in Michigan and living in New York City for years. Turns out he's a math professor on the medical campus with an interest in Jewish studies. For that matter, I spotted a handful of men wearing yarmulkes on a Wednesday evening. Two rows in front of me was the VCU religion and philosophy prof who used to live two doors down from me on Floyd Avenue.

It's all so inter-connected, isn't it?

Sarna was as funny as a Borscht Belt comedian and as knowledgeable as one of the most prominent historians of American Judaism (which he is) should be and, as lecturers go, absolutely captivating to listen to.

He began by sharing a story of traveling to Jerusalem as a teen with his family and being gobsmacked at seeing a sign for Abraham Lincoln Street. His father stopped a passerby, asking who this man was, not that he didn't know but he wanted their story. The Israelite patiently explained to Sarna and his dad that Lincoln was a prominent Jew from America who'd made a huge contribution to the United Jewish appeal.

And that was only one of the times that Sarna had the audience laughing in between dropping fascinating historical facts on us.

He said that Lincoln's life span coincided with the rise of Jews on the American scene. That Richmond's Jewish community dates back to the American Revolution. That Abe was the most biblically-literate president in U.S. history and had a wicked wit evidenced in his writings

To prove Abe's affinity for the Jews, he showed us a chart detailing 120 of Abe's friends, acquaintances, appointees and the like who were Jewish. Hell, Sarna showed us an 1862 letter from Lincoln saying, "I believe I have not yet appointed a Hebrew" ("That was the first affirmative action!" he cracked) and then doing just that by making a Jew assistant quartermaster with the rank of captain.

But where Abe truly burned brightest in his efforts to be inclusive was with his appointment of the first Jew as military chaplain of a Jewish-led regiment. Only problem was the army turned the appointment down because the law stated that chaplains had to promote Christianity.

So what does Abe do but work behind the scenes to change the law and like a good politician, buries it in a bigger bill giving Union generals a raise because after all, who's not going to vote for that?

So that's right, non-Christians can serve as military chaplains solely because of a law Lincoln shaped. He also omitted any reference to this being a Christian nation in his Gettysburg Address, instead referring to us as one nation under god (any god), a fact which had Sarna making Wiccan jokes.

Talking about Abe's visit here after Richmond fell, he quipped, "You've heard of that, right?" and got a big laugh, but his point was to tell us that while here, Abe met with an important Jewish Richmonder, telling him that he wasn't going to persecute the south but let them off easy as part of his post-war reconstruction plan.

And when he was shot at Ford's Theater, it was a Jewish doctor who cleaned the wound and declared it fatal. It was then that he effectively rested his case: Abe had changed America with his rhetoric and actions concerning the Jewish population.

When the talk ended, Sarna began the Q & A by saying, "This is everything you always wanted to know about Abraham Lincoln and the Jews but were afraid to ask, so ask good questions," delighting the 50+ crowd who knew the reference.

After nothing but guys were given the microphone, he finally asked, "We've had three men ask questions. Are women allowed to ask?" and some female students finally got their turns.

No one wanted the Q & A to end, but the head librarian pointed out that we could probably do this all night (during which I'd expect to hear, "Thank you very much. I'm here all week, try the veal!") except it was time to move on to the reception.

There weren't nearly as many great jokes at the reception as there'd been during the history lecture, although one quip caught my ear: "Once you go Jew, nothing else will do."

I could just hear Sarna's inevitable response had he been standing there. "You've heard of that, right?"

Not until tonight, but it's never too late to learn. We'll call it Lincoln's legacy.

With or Without Clothes

On Sunday, November 11, 2012, I saw my first Classical Revolution at Balliceaux.

I know that because one of the benefits of keeping a blog like this is being able to see where I was on any given day, assuming I blogged that day and presuming I chose to share everything I did, which no one should be surprised to learn I don't always do.

It's not just that casual revelations can backfire on me (but, oh, man, can they...), but that there's plenty that should only be shared face to face. A long-time reader recently summed it up nicely.

"All I know is the blog and that continually revolving story of events that you churn out day after day, something new, something old, hit replay or reset...offering yourself to the world (or what you want us to see)."

That's all you can know unless I want you to know more. Fair, no?

So when Beckham and the Beauty met up with me tonight for Classical Revolution's cleverly-titled "Haydn Where You Least Expect It," it was for a performance celebrating the series' fifth anniversary. That's part of the wonder of Richmond: start doing something interesting and it's bound to take off and with tending, last.

And why not celebrate at everyone's favorite lesbian bar, Babes of Carytown? Sure, I 've been there before - for the Mozart Festival, for book readings - but neither Beckham nor Beauty had ever set foot inside. In fact, it was funny, Beckham remembered it as having quite the fearsome reputation for a young male whippersnapper back when he was in high school.

Now it's just another cozy bar for Classical Revolution to share their message of bringing classical music to the kind of places popular music is so easily found.

The three of us weren't shy about claiming front row seats - Beauty immediately insisting on a "Karen sandwich" with me between them for sharing - with terrific views of two violinists, a viola and a cello player for tonight's performance of Haydn's "Emperor Quartet in C Major." Turns out it was so-called because the melody of the second movement went on to become both Austria and Germany's national anthem.

According to violinist Ellen, that came about because Haydn visited England, where he first heard "God Save the Queen," and thought to himself (her words, not mine), "Hey, we need one of those!" Further proof that musical history can be humorous and informative.

Explaining each movement before it was played went a long way toward helping the more musically-challenged among us (*raises hand) understand the nuances of the beautiful piece of music we were hearing, although as Beauty put it, "Sometimes it's nice to just lose yourself in the music and not even listen for what's going on."

Amen to that, especially on a dark, rainy night and especially after getting a chance to catch up with friends beforehand. After months of relentless studying, Beauty made me laugh rhapsodizing about the pleasures of vacuuming and her cooking faux pas at the cabin in Buckingham County.

I needed to hear that story about Beckham's cousin burning half his beard and all his eyebrows off lighting a fire with gasoline. Who hasn't made some poor choices while drinking whiskey and lighting fires? Hmm, I point out that last time I saw those two together, it involved alcohol and flames and Beckham looks mildly sheepish.

Of course that's not all we talked about - big knuckles and blood diamonds, the shawarma with preserved lemon I'd had earlier, hormones - but probably enough to share now.

"Really, in essence, what else is a writer to do? Besides, you're a blast because, to a great extent, your work is you. You make a connection. Your humanity comes shining through your endeavors. Every writer wants to be read, to be liked in some form or fashion. You're no exception. What's a poor girl to do but keep moving on?"

I'm just going to assume that's a rhetorical question and hit reset. Seems that's what I do.

Ampersand with Flourish

I'm not gonna lie, my purpose was twofold.

Being the documentary dork that I am, I can honestly say I was jazzed to see that there was going to be a screening of "Pressing On: The Letterpress Film" at the Byrd tonight. Why not, with a subject that not only interested me but one that I know so little about?

But it certainly didn't hurt that after years, nay, decades, of sitting in the Byrd's rickety, scratchy, busted springs, torn pleather seats, I was completely stoked to sit in one of the chairs installed since I was there last Monday.

Hallelujah and pass the buttered popcorn, it felt miraculous.

As if just not having to work around the uncomfortable, protruding parts wasn't enough of a gift, there was the unimaginable: leg room, a cup holder and even a wider seat. I took mine for a test sit, bouncing just a little so I could feel the springs respond and not play dead like on the old ones.

They're not the eye candy the old seats were - I seriously doubt they make 'em like they used to - but butts don't care about visuals.

It was in such comfort and spaciousness that I got to see the Richmond premiere of "Pressing On," presented on a city-to-city tour by its producer and co-director. Their first order of business was drooling over the Byrd Theater's historic grandeur, saying "This is the coolest theater we've screened in."

A series of former pressmen (some second and third generation), press collectors, young artists discovering letterpress, a guy who repairs old presses and others took us through the history of the letterpress and why it's so important we don't let the old machines wind up in landfills or rusting in basements.

One pressman marveled that the young are fascinated by the obsolete technology, attracted to the physicality of having to move to do it, rather than just pushing a button on a computer. Another old-timer, said, "Twenty, thirty years ago, I thought letterpress would die with me."

Happily, that no longer is the case.

Naturally we heard about how Gutenberg's printing press had changed the course of culture, allowing people access to words formerly interpreted by priests. But also it represented the sheer explosion of information that could now be printed and disseminated.

Because old type is wearing out and new type needs to be made, there are now guys working diligently to repair old machines - apparently built to last multiple lifetimes - and return them to serviceability.

A lot of the people in the room seemed to be in the graphic design fields and you could see them nod or murmur when things like that were mentioned in the film.

One of the more fascinating aspects of it was not only the devotion it inspired in people, but the early attraction. One man shared that he began working at his local printing press when he was 10. "And when I turned 16, they began paying me for it."

Just about everyone interviewed was adamant that old presses not end up in museums - the Smithsonian was specifically mentioned - where they would sit unused, a consideration a non-printer such as myself wouldn't have thought of.

The point was also made that these days, event posters are made for celebrating and commemorating, not for advertising purposes since that's now mostly done online. It's not like even 10 years ago, when I would make sure to read every telephone pole's posters as I walked by so I'd know about any interesting shows coming up.

I'd be inclined to say that we're kind of spoiled in Richmond because the print collective Studio Two Three has been offering classes and making presses available to the community for, what, a decade now. I've purchased several posters from them over the years, attracted to their singularity, flaws and all, which is something you can't get with digital reproduction which always looks the same.

Damn conformity.

It was mainly the passion of everyone in the film that made it so engaging for a non-printer. I mean, when a person says he intends to keep printing until the hearse shows up, clearly he's doing something he loves.

Whereas what I love is watching yet another nerdy documentary, but in a seat so comfortable I don't leave with cramps in my butt cheeks for a change.

Instead, what I do leave with is a newfound appreciation for why old presses are getting new lives: for the love of printing.

And truly, is there a better reason for doing anything than love?

Dirty Jersey

Crossing state lines took a backseat to music.

Our plans to head to the Potomac to eat crabs got moved, so we did the most unlikely thing: went to see a film about hip hop in a theater populated by old white people. I kid you not.

The movie was Patti Cake$, the venue was Movieland and the draw was that the producer - a former Richmonder who graduated Collegiate - would be in the house to take questions afterward.

But apparently Michael Gottwald's parents had put out the word to their circle and the result was a theater full of people who needed to be warned ahead of time that the previews could be unpleasant. What they didn't warn the comfortable and economically-advantaged audience concerned the movie itself.

Let's face it, you can't tell the story of a white, plus-sized female wanna-be rapper from New Jersey (so of course the movie began with a Springsteen song) without a fair amount of violence, explicit language and bathroom stall vomiting. Gasps were heard around us more than once.

Mac and I, on the other hand, saw all the appeal that the Sundance crowd had seen in the story of a young woman pursuing her unlikely dream with the unabashed support of her Nana and the eventual support of her mother, a singer who never realized her dreams.

At the Q & A, it was obvious the crowd was still trying to wrap its head around why a nice white boy from Richmond had gotten behind a film about a rapper, albeit a white rapper. Gottwald explained that his job as producer was to find people with a vision and help them realize it, but the audience was slow to grasp that.

We left the country club set behind to head to Doner Kebab for shawarmas, where a gracious table of young middle eastern men engaged in a spirited conversation insisted on moving their table over to our bench once our food arrived.

Their English was accented and their manners were impeccable, allowing us to enjoy our meal outside in the soft summer air that I fear is no longer the norm.

The final stop of the evening was Flora for Mikrowaves' CD (and tape) release show. We started at the front bar, Mac with a Bad and Boozy cocktail (come on, it's a great name) and me with the complete opposite: Espolon over one giant cube.

Making our way to the back room, we eventually found stools along the back wall and settled in for the 12-piece Brunswick, with their usual healthy dose of horns, percussion and young man energy.

Looking around the room, Mac commented that she couldn't recall the last time she'd been in a room with so many men. I guess I don't even notice that anymore after so many years of going to shows.

That said, I ran into plenty of men I knew: two sax players, a bass player intently studying lead singer Eddie playing the bass, the trumpet player I last saw at the beach, a sous chef from Pasture who recognized me before I recognized him and then pulled me into a deep conversation.

Meanwhile, over at the bar, we spotted a woman balancing her butt cheeks on two different bar stools, an interesting act of balancing.

And Mikrowaves, so they don't start playing until 11:30, well, they're nine musicians who never disappoint. Since Mac hadn't seen them, she'd asked one of the musicians what their music was like, only to be told it was an amalgamation of many things, all emanating from Eddie's active brain.

Now watching their set of old and new music unfold from atop the back most bar table, she nodded, agreeing that it wasn't any one thing. There's Eddie's soulful voice, there's that standout horn section, and don't forget the Caribbean and African influences - wait, is that blues I'm hearing? - and a terrific rhythm section.

In short order, many in the room began dancing. Mac had to leave because of an early wake-up call, so I climbed off the table and joined the dancing throngs.

Crabs will still be there next week and butt cheeks may fall, but there's only one Mikrowaves release show.

You the Man

The time is always right to do what is right. ~ MLK

Seemed like the right thing to do tonight was to walk over to the VCU Depot for a candlelight vigil for Martin Luther King.

When Mac and I got there, there couldn't have been more than a dozen people there, but within no time, the number had grown to many dozens and we'd all been handed white candles to carry. A VCU student sang a song and we were instructed by an organizer to walk two abreast in an orderly line as we made our way to the Student Commons for remarks.

His next instruction was couched in the usual millennial manner. "This is a silent vigil, so please refrain from talking...if you can." As if to say, if you just can't shut up for five blocks, we understand.

What??

As we proceeded in an orderly manner, complete with a VCU police escort along side us, it was in a mostly silent manner (a few people just couldn't resist talking to a friend), our breath visible as we moved slowly through campus.

After the first couple of blocks, the silence became so enveloping that the conversations of passersby seemed unnaturally loud and intrusive while in some cases, people would notice the silence hanging over the march and lower their voices,although not quite sure why.

There was a stirring solemnity to the vigil - it was tempting to get lost in watching the small flame flickering in your own hand - that was frequently overshadowed by the sound of shutters closing as hordes of cameramen walked and ran alongside us, shooting our faces, our marching feet, our candles.

It must be what being a model on a runway feels like, except we weren't there to be looked at or photographed.

Walking into the ballroom at VCU to find few seats available beyond the first row (we took them), we heard, appropriately enough, Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On" right up until a student in a fraternity jacket got up and gave what sounded like a poorly-delivered book report on King and his accomplishments, leaving out most of the highlights.

He was also extremely careful about his word choices, using "African-American" and studiously avoiding using "black" as if it were the n-word. Fortunately, he was just the prelude to a slide show of mostly old black and white photographs while we listened to King's stirring "I Have a Dream" speech.

When it concluded, we agreed that we were both glad we'd come.

After a quick dinner of chicken and lamb shawarmas at Doner Kebab while listening to middle-eastern dance music and admiring sunny posters of Syrian landscapes and buildings that probably don't exist any longer, we headed to the Byrd.

Standing at the front of the line for the late show, a young mixed race couple came walking down the sidewalk and inquired what we were waiting for.

I didn't just tell them that we were waiting to see Spike Lee's "Do the Right Thing," I wondered out loud why they weren't planning to see a classic black film and one of the top movies of the '80s as well.

He was black, had seen it with his parents when he was 12 and been underwhelmed at its lack of CGI effects and high-definition production values. So old fashioned.

As you might guess, this was catnip to me since the notion of style winning out over substance is not one that holds any water for me. Before long, he was explaining how his generation needs to be entertained (she said they all have attention deficit) constantly, so why risk the uncertainty of human interaction when you've got the reliability of Reddit?

I'm not kidding, he said that.

We went on to spend enough time talking about race relations, millennial malaise, sexual exploitation and the value of old movies to the point that she eventually admitted she'd never seen the film and was a little curious. Next thing we knew, she was in the line to buy a ticket, so of course he joined her, despite having dissed the film repeatedly.

Come on, he was 20 years old and she was pretty. He's going to go where she wants to go.

As luck would have it, they wound up in the row right in front of us so we could further the conversation. He was still leery about having to sit through the film (which I assured him would resonate differently now from how it had at 12), so I leaned forward to reassure him that his parents would approve, that this is where he should be on this holiday.

"I'm doing the right thing," he said, cracking himself and me up at his humor.

It had been so many years since I'd seen "Do the Right Thing" that there were some surprises along the way. The trio of men sitting by the wall and constantly commenting on the street theater played as completely real, especially the deeply dimpled Sweet Dick Willy who insists it's never too hot for sex and made me laugh out loud when he saw a pretty girl and said, "Oh,, Lord, I better not see her on payday!"

I hadn't remembered Samuel L. Jackson as the DJ Mister Senor Love Daddy, dropping gems such as, "Today's temperature's gonna rise up over 100 degrees, so there's a Jheri Curl alert. If you have a Jheri curl, stay in the house or you'll end up with a permanent black helmet on your head fo-evah!"

And I certainly didn't recall derogatory references to Trump and his hotel.

But the final scene had been burned into my brain, or perhaps the believable violence just seemed too current and real even then not to make a lasting impression, but after 28 years, it still left me pondering and us discussing what the right thing was.

When the lights came up, we reconvened our discussion group about the production and content value of the film, diving so far into it that it was only an usher calling to us from the doors, "Hey, it's time to leave!" that got us moving.

On the other hand, Mac and I had been the sole reason two 20-somethings not only talked to strangers, but sat through a classic piece of black cinema tonight and, for that reason, I have no doubt we did the right thing.

In the words of Mister Senor Love Daddy, that's the double truth, Ruth.

The Cat Who Won't Cop Out

If it wasn't one thing politics today, it was another blaxploitation in the '70s.

On my walk this morning, I saw a couple hammering a "Stoney for Mayor" sign into their pocket-sized lawn in the Fan and it was all I could do restrain myself from going over and demanding to know why they thought a man with such limited experience and tenure in town would be well-suited to running our city.

At the very least, I knew I'd have a sympathetic ear for the story later, when my plans were to meet up with an activist type to discuss all things mayoral before the VMFA screening of "Shaft" for the final night of the Gordon Parks mini-film fest.

Along the way, I spotted a dead raccoon laid out on Boulevard, with no cars parked anywhere near it, as if it had cooties or something.

Strolling down Floyd to get to Doner Kebab, I spied a yard with the right kind of political signs to give me all the feels, so I paused on the sidewalk to chat from a distance with the couple on the porch of the house, which just happened to be next to the one I lived in from 1993 through 2006.

It's a neighborhood I know well, even if it has become quite a bit more affluent since my early days there. Fortunately, funky still competes with renovated on block after block.

In a nutshell, the couple had been wowed by Balile's honesty and preparedness, could see why people were sucked in by Stoney's glibness, abhorred Morrissey and put up a Clinton/Kaine sign mainly to prove there's no shame in doing so.

I liked them immensely after 10 minutes conversation and discovering that her name was the same as mine.

A few houses down, I passed a raised garden bed from which sprouted the white legs of an upside down mannequin with black combat boots on its feet.

Ah, there's the Floyd Avenue that originally seduced me back in the '90s.

Naturally, the local political scene was all we talked about over Middle Eastern dance music and shawermas, mainly because there's so much at stake. As an unexpected bonus, the owner decided to throw his support behind Baliles while we were there, so perhaps we brought good vibes or something.

Walking into the museum afterward, the guard told me to enjoy my evening, and when I assured him I would because I was coming to see "Shaft," his face lit up and then fell. "That's playing tonight?" he asked. "And I gotta work."

We agreed it was a shame for him.

Downstairs, my dining companion and I met up to find good seats for the 1971 film and got to talking about that era when he'd been a conscientious objector assigned to work on LBJ's War on Poverty in Kentucky.

This is why you see a period film with someone who lived through the period.

During the introduction, we learned that "Shaft" was considered revolutionary both in terms of its cinematic role and its cultural role, not to mention the Isaac Hayes soundtrack that won the Oscar that year.

Told we were seeing the unedited version, we were both curious how it would stack up against current movies in terms of violence, language and sex.

And I've got to say that those first few distinctive notes of the "Theme from Shaft" (and the full soundtrack version, not the radio edit) along with shots of John Shaft moving through Manhattan (past Corvairs and picketers carrying signs reading, "I got my job through the New York Times") set the tone for a total immersion into the early days of black power.

It was a far cry from director Gordon Parks's debut film, "The Learning Tree," which I'd seen last night, despite there being only two years between the films. That had been a soft-lens focus look back at a difficult coming of age story where "Shaft" was all manhood.

And don't get me started on Richard Roundtree's dimple or the superb way that man wore a turtleneck.

It warms my black heart to see you so concerned about us minority folk.

But, man, was it ever a reminder of what another lifetime 1971 was. Hotels with telephone switchboards behind the front desk. Vegetable vendors with their products in wooden carts with metal wheels. A bag of hot chestnuts for two bits. A poster on a boarded up wall for an upcoming Four Tops show. "Wop" insults hurled with abandon.

Taxi drivers who refused to stop for black passengers.

When you lead your revolution, whitey better be standing still because you don't run worth a damn no more.

Drug humor - "Billy, could you go turn on..." "Hey, man, I already turned on!" "No, no, turn on the lights?" was no surprise but sexuality openness was ("I'm gay"), although both spoke to the time, as did Shaft's bachelor pad, complete with shelves holding hardback books, a reel to reel player and a turntable.

A sex machine needs that stuff in order to play Isaac Hayes and Curtis Mayfield for any lady visitors. He apparently also needs to keep a spare pistol in a Baggie in the freezer, right next to the cans of Minute Maid orange juice every bachelor keeps around.

What did you get, Shaft? I got laid.

But my personal favorite was the sex scene, all soft focus and seen through a Calder mobile hanging above the white couch which provides such great contrast with Shaft's naked brown skin.

And while I knew intellectually that it was a blaxploitation movie, it came across more like a film noir with a black private dick in a fitted leather jacket. Suspenseful scenes were accompanied by Hayes' taut percussion and sometimes, the reddest fake blood you've ever seen.

After it ended, my companion and I couldn't wait to compare notes, starting with how even in its unedited form, it didn't come close to today's movie violence. Seems we've moved that needle so far in 45 years that a groundbreaking film like this just seems like business as usual with wide lapels. That brought up bell bottoms, which we hadn't seen a lot of in the movie.

Before I could even bring it up, he mentioned something I'd also noticed, namely the easily recognizable wallpaper ("I had that gray one in my house!" he tells me) and wall hangings (I had the green one in my first apartment) of that era. Bold, curved lines in dark and metallic colors had immediately taken me back to some of the hipper '70s homes I was in.

As we were leaving the museum, I paused to chat with the guard, telling him about all the '70s details, including Shaft's sound system.

"Reel to reels were the thing back then," he says, embracing the subject. "I still have mine and my turntable, but all my albums got warped."

Turns out he isn't the only reel to reel holdout because the activist still maintains two himself: one to play and the other to use for spare parts as needed. Come on, it sounds so good.

As Shaft would say, you're damn right. Relics that we are, we can dig it.

Only Endless Horror

I think I got everything out of Tuesday I possibly could.

First up was a navigation lesson, one of the bazillion in my clueless life.

Although I was sure I'd walked the buttermilk trail on the southside of the river last week, today I learned differently.

I'd walked the service road, not the trail. Oops.

No problemo, a willing walker joined me and we began at Texas beach, crossed the Boulevard bridge (my first time on foot) and wound our way down to the real buttermilk trail.

No, really. This time I had a corroborating witness.

With the heavens alternately spitting, raining and closing in on us with humidity, I arrived back at Texas beach with my shirt soaked through with sweat, front and back.

Very satisfying.

Lunch followed at Doner Kebab (inside so our sweaty clothes could dry in the air conditioning), where I convinced my fellow walker that the chicken shawarma is actually more delicious than the beef/lamb one, not an easy thing to believe until you taste it.

He gave me an amen.

Finally making myself sit down to write an article for which I'd done four interviews last week, the words flowed easily and the afternoon passed in a haze of winnowing down thousands of words to merely 800.

You know how I like to run on.

Once showered to removed trail sweat and worse, I did the easiest possible thing on a Tuesday: went to watch a bad movie at a bar.

River City Classic not so classic movie night was showing 1962's "The Flesh Eaters," considered one of the first gore movies ever for its graphic violence. In black and white naturally, but I guess that's what passed for gore in 1962.

Right up my alley? Not really. Sure to be a good time? You know it.

Getting there early enough to claim my favorite booth, I watched cheesy trailers to "Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde," "Equinox" - "in supernatural color," it claimed, and "The Leech Woman" - "for her, there could be no love, only endless horror."

Must've sucked to be leech woman.

A couple came in just as the trailers ended, sat down at the bar and announced to no one in particular, "Let the flesh eating begin!"

Premise: faded movie star and her nubile assistant enlist ruggedly handsome pilot to fly them to Provincetown despite a forecast of a hurricane.

Ergo, the plane is downed on a remote island that happens to house an evil German-accented doctor working on cultivating the terrifying flesh eaters.

Totally plausible, right?

And soon enough, glowing, flesh-eating microbes began eating fish and hapless victims in the water.

Since they only ate flesh, that meant that they were always finding full skeletons in the water, bones picked clean (hair and bikini top left in place).

Once it becomes obvious the three are stranded on the island, they make do by retrieving the raft from the boat for the women to sleep on.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll go inflate the bed," our hero Grant says suavely.

"Cause we deflated it last night!" a guy in a nearby booth called out.

We soon learned that the has-been movie actress has some addiction issues when she insists on going back to the plane to get her suitcase full of booze.

"Gentlemen, I drink! Not polite cocktails, I drink!"

Which means when she finally gets to her stash, she cradles the bottle in her arms and says, "Everybody keeps trying to take my medicine away!" and a guy at the bar called out, "Bartender, I need my medicine!"

Of course she gets trashed and passes out on the beach for the night, waking up to blinding sun and a headache you could almost see.

"I know what that's like!" a guy shouted.

"You know what it's like to wake up on a beach with a rope around your hand?" someone else yelled.

Uh-oh, our drunkard had let the plane get away, leaving her holding the rope where the plane's anchor used to be.

Watching the comely assistant climb a dune, someone said in a German accent, "Ooh, zee junk in zee trunk!"

But it was when the actress spots her liquor suitcase bobbing in the waves and goes after it that a guy said, "I have a feeling this isn't going to end well..." but square-jawed Grant rescued her, losing only a little calf flesh in the process.

Just when I thought the film couldn't get any cornier, there appeared on the horizon a beatnik (using words such as kooky and jazz) on a raft with a record player and a flag with a heart on it flying in the breeze.

Real gone, man.

"That beatnik music won't keep the flesh eaters away!" someone at the bar yelled at him in warning.

He ignored it ("Don't worry, Omar's got the love weapon," he assured them) and sure enough, soon the flesh eaters were sizzling through the rope sandals that had taken him three weeks to make.

By then the actress was convinced that there was no chance of rescue. "Oh, heaven protect a simple lady lush in a place like this!" she said to the sky.

That's the kind of prayer I might want to pull out at some future date to dazzle party guests.

Her solution is to put on lipstick and perfume, unbutton her shirt a few notches and try to convince the evil doctor that she's on his side.

Doesn't work, he stabs her and leaves her for dead, but like in any good gore movie, she pops up unexpectedly later to help fight evil.

I wouldn't think of spoiling the ending or the suicide, giant hypodermic full of the castaways' blood and recorded death screams leading up to it, but I will tell you this.

After a back flip, Grant and the blond assistant have a shoreline hug before heading up toward the center of the island, away from the freshly dead flesh eater monster and dead doc.

"Let's just get naked," the guy in the booth to my right suggested to the happy couple.

"And they died on the island," deadpanned another. The end.

Moral of the story: as long as you've got the love weapon, you've got it all. Flesh eaters excepted.

Reasonably Content

Gemini
You might opt to stay close to home, which really is not your style. Whether you are deep into a book or something else, you will feel quite content.

Let's just say I knew I had things to get done today and since I'll be away the next two days, I did stay close to home all day.

My one concession was a trip to Doner Kebab for a hale and hearty chicken shawarma before going to Movieland to catch an early movie.

Spike Jonze's "Her" had attracted a mostly middle-aged audience, curious I thought, because in some ways it's a rom-com, albeit a  delusional one, about the disconnected lives of the millennials.

The story of a guy who works for the serenely pastel HandwrittenBeautifulLetters.com, creating sensitive letters for other people to send to their loved ones shows him as broken-hearted after a failed marriage and living a listless, disconnected life where each day ends with video games and phone sex.

When he finally does go on a date, he lets slip that he knows she took a mixology course. "Did you look me up?" she asks eagerly and when he admits he did, she says, "That's so romantic."

I know it makes me a dinosaur, but I find absolutely nothing romantic about Googling someone before going out with them.

That life changes when he buys an operating system with such refined artificial intelligence that she can interpret his moods by his voice.

She reads his loneliness and gives him back excitement about life so it isn't long before they're in love with each other.

This is marginally dismaying because she's a voice in a computer which means when they have sex, there's no actual touching involved because she doesn't have a body.

Again, call me old school, but I really do require a body for everything from kissing to spooning with all the stops in between.

Not so this guy and the charm of the film is that Jonez makes you believe it as a love story every step of the way.

When one of his co-workers suggests a double date, he admits that his girlfriend is an operating system.

"Okay, maybe we can go to Catalina," the guys says nonplussed. And they do, three people and a disembodied voice have a picnic and carry on witty and philosophical conversation on a hillside.

And somehow it rings true.

The scary part is that it all makes perfect sense. She's got access to his hard drive and e-mails and the more he shares about himself, the more it helps "her" develop and fine tune the intelligence that's been programmed into her.

Kind of like the way the more you tell a new date about yourself in the early stages, the closer you begin to feel as he gets a sense of who you are and responds to the compatibilities.

In the movie, the two talk to each other more often than any real life couple I know as they share everything they're thinking and feeling.

Part of the charm of the intelligently observant movie was that there was no way to anticipate where the quirky story was going, leading to a string of surprises.

But Jonez even gives us a reason for that: Falling in love is the only form of socially accepted insanity.

Holy fun fact, Batman, I didn't need a movie to tell me that.

But at least it got this Gemini out of the house today.

Make That 1 for 4

"I'm 0 for 3 for hanging out with Karen," a friend messaged me yesterday.

True enough; he'd forgotten our lunch Friday, I couldn't do lunch yesterday because I was on deadline and he didn't get my e-mail about dinner last night until it was too late.

Today we were going to make it happen, come hell or high water.

Waiting for the perennially late one outside in front of my house, I used the time to pull weeds from the brick sidewalk in front of my garden.

Everything came up easily because of the recent snow and rain, and I tossed the weeds into the street, satisfied in taking care of a chore during a few found minutes.

Bent over and pulling up a particularly large clump of wire grass from around the light post, I look over and see that a cop car has stopped in front of my house.

The window is down and the officers inside the car are glaring at me.

"You know that's illegal, right?" the one in the driver's seat says in a stern police voice.

Gulp. My heart is now pounding like it's going to come out of my chest.

Meekly, I admit that I hadn't known this and was counting on tomorrow's street cleaning to remove the green debris.

"Just kidding!" the cop says. "I told my partner I was going to mess with you when I saw you."

Oh, ha ha. Real funny.

He assured me I was doing nothing wrong, wished me a good day and cruised down Clay Street.

Are my city tax dollars going to comedians or cops?

My friend arrived minutes later and when I told him the story, he laughed long and hard, bent over double at how funny it was to challenge Karen on breaking the law.

I'm sure it's much funnier when you're not the one being reprimanded by men in blue.

Once he stopped laughing at me, we set out on our walk with me taking him by some of my favorite sites - the crooked blue house, the living roof, my broken swing.

As we walked, we tried to decide where to have lunch but he was leaning toward pho (and I wanted more than that) and I was leaning toward a burger (but he'd recently had McDonald's against his will and was uninterested).

Once back at my house, we piled into his large vehicle to go to his bank in Carytown, thereby narrowing down where we might lunch.

When I found out he didn't know about Doner Kebab, our choice was made.

We waited behind a sweet-looking, older couple ordering before deciding on what we wanted, shawarmas both, his beef and lamb, mine chicken and white garlic sauce.

While they were being made, we went to claim seats at the tiny counter that faces Cary Street.

I saw that the couple had already staked their claim on the bar, laying out utensils and drinks, but my friend didn't notice them and sat down in claimed territory.

The nice older man came over and pointed out their stake, suggesting we all share the prime seats for watching the street theater.

It gave me a chance to tease my friend about his obliviousness, small compensation for his earlier belly laughter at my expense.

In an effort to show there was no hard feelings about his seat poaching, Friend showed the couple his malt beverage (non-alcoholic) pomegranate drink with Arabic writing as a way to get conversation going.

It was their first time and they were as happy with their beef/lamb and falafel choices as my friend was with his.

Tasty, cheap, fast, an ideal lunch with strangers.

And, significantly for me, no laws broken while eating it. As if.

My Weekend Opening Ceremonies

If I should have been home watching the Olympics, no one told me that.

So naturally I wasn't spending my Friday night in front of the TV (not that I have one).

Scene 1, in which I watch the chaos that is preparation for a bridal dinner party at 27.

The mother of the groom arrives less than an hour before the dinner with sixty little boxes of chocolates inscribed with the happy couple's name and instructs the staff how and where they are to be placed.

Good luck with a mother-in-law like that, honey.

Meanwhile a friend of the sous chef stops by, making a hell of a fashion statement.

"Anyone ever tell you that you look like an extra from Mad Max?" he is asked to make a point.

Taking it as a compliment, the guy responds, "No, no one, but that's awesome!"

Moral: be careful who you insult obliquely for they may hear a compliment.

Scene 2, in which we take shelter from the storm.

With a fierce-looking storm about to break overhead, we scuttled up to Amuse for their panoramic window views.

Dark clouds loomed, fading sun outlined the windblown trees and rain fell without us even noticing.

The balcony was understandably closed and the bar was three deep. Half of RVA, it seemed, was at Amuse.

We established a beach head at the far end next to the absinthe drip (foreshadowing) and ordered a bottle of Urban Uco Torrontes.

I promised the Viognier lover that it would deliver a floral nose, a hint of sweetness and a refreshing finish and did it ever.

Friends who are leaving for Las Vegas Sunday joined us for spirited discussion of the virtues of Neil Young ("Why doesn't he do Canadicana instead of Americana?"), how the Byrds went country and the eternal question, Rubber Soul or Revolver.

Noshing selection was left to me and I chose rabbit pate with apricot, dill pickle slices and pickled turnip on crostini.

Even he who hadn't had rabbit or turnips was impressed with the earthy pate.

We'd come to say farewell to a friend and favorite bartender who eventually joined us on the fun side of the bar.

Absinthe drips were prepared, arriving unusually dark green, a sure sign that a generous drip had been poured.

There really is nothing like the feel of absinthe as the green fairy winds its way through your veins.

Before long, texts were arriving demanding to know why I wasn't at my next stop so we break camp for new adventures, the bartender and I.

Scene 3, in which we did not sample Shockoe.

The bartender and I drove down to the Bottom to meet a friend at 2113 and between it being a restro-lounge and tonight being part of Sample Shockoe, we expect a Friday night mob scene.

Instead, it is seven people at a bar and dance music pumping loudly.

Our waiting friend glares at me for my tardiness and I order a Don Julio.

Nearby, a trio is discussing ex-wives although they don't look like the ex-wives types. But then, who does?

We talk about the local dining scene until we decide we want some food and exit stage right.

Scene 4, in which we discuss religion on a deserted street.

Arriving in Carytown, we head to Don't Look Back, where I run into a bast from my past.

He sits down next to me with an enormous grin on his face, clearly surprised to see me there.

When I meet his girlfriend, she is full of compliments and already knows things about me.

Moments later, one in our group gives DLB the thumbs down (the bass is loud and thumping) and we proceed up Cary Street.

It's not that late and yet nothing much is open. But the heat is absent and the night feels cool and lovely.

We pass a couple where he is telling her about how awesome the food at the Eatery is and the three of us laugh over the dirty grease smell that defines the Eatery.

Nearly at the end of Carytown, we finally stop at Doner Kebab when we see the vertical spits with meat on them.

It was as if a chorus of angels suddenly began singing hallelujah.

Inside the brightly-lit and tiny restaurant, we order two shawarmas: one chicken, one beef/lamb, both on fresh pita bread with creamy yogurt sauce.

We take the food outside to a table to ravage it.

I taste the intensely-flavored chicken variety my bartender friend has ordered and am an immediate Doner devotee.

The patient one and I share the overstuffed beef/lamb shawarmas, with me handing it back to him with lipstick on it.

It's a good friend who will eat your lipstick prints.

Once our Turkish fast food has hit our stomachs, we all feel full of life again and conversation ensues.

As a group of women in head scarves ate nearby and couples came and went with food, we inexplicably found ourselves knee-deep in a discussion of Catholicism versus Protestantism.

Organized religion versus individual spirituality.

Literal bible reading versus interpretation.

As a card-carrying heathen at a table with a Christian-raised man who's done missionary work and an Indian-born man who labels himself neither an atheist nor an agnostic, but with a profound doubt about a higher being, it was fascinating.

Fortunately for us, Doner is open until 3 a.m. so we sat there in the light of the spit trying to unravel life's mysteries until about 2:15.

Scene 5, in which I hugged a friend not knowing when I will see him again

I knew once we left I had to drop off my departing friend and say one last goodbye. He moves halfway across the country in a week.

But if ever there was a satisfying final night with a friend, this had been it.

Hmm, I wonder how things went with the Olympics.