Hit Parade

If ever there was a time to finally bury the Confederacy, that time is now.

And if ever All the Saints Theater Company had been looking for a relevant theme for this year's Halloween parade, they'd have been hard pressed to do better than Funeral for the Confederacy.

Let's bury it and move on, shall we?

Besides remembering 2017 as the year parade organizers had no choice but to to address the nightmare that is race relations in this country, I'll also remember it as the year the parade set up on the steps of Cathedral of the Sacred Heart rather than across the street in Monroe Park - fenced off due to renovations and tree murder - like the past 11 years.

No one seemed to know if we actually had permission to stage the parade there, but at least the bishop didn't come out shaking his fist at us and telling us whippersnappers to get off his steps.

As happens every year, it took a while to get everything assigned to willing volunteers, mainly because so many people who showed up were unwilling to carry a sign or puppet. One friend, date in tow, gave me the lame excuse he doesn't like to carry anything ("That's why I use a backpack"), but he was only one of scores of people too lazy? too cool? too busy talking to their friends? to bother carrying one of the 100 pieces that All the Saints had crafted for display in the parade.

But Halloween is not about judging, so I'll just let their lack of effort slide for now.

My choice was a yard-long sign about defeating white supremacy. A woman dressed as a hooker in a fur jacket, daisy dukes and thigh-high red boots graciously agreed to carry one of the mouths that followed the white supremacist pizza in an attempt to gobble it up. But as it took longer and longer for the parade to get set up, she got impatient.

"Look, this is wasting time and time is money for me. I get $100 an hour and we're on my dime now. I should be flat on my back." She was kidding. I think.

Finally, No BS Brass Band kicked into high gear and organizer Lilly of All the Saints started waving her enormous yellow flag to signal that this year's parade was officially on the move under a waxing gibbous moon.

The pizza, mouths and I were just behind the Imperial Presidency group with multiple puppets of President No One and just in front of the Bones of Resistance and the Zombie String Band. Where we were particularly lucky was with the weather, which was neither too warm and sticky (2009), nor too windy (2010), nor raining (2011). It was Goldilocks just right.

Good thing, too, given the abundance of scanty costumes marching through Oregon Hill, like the woman in front of me wearing sheer black tights, lavender satin underwear on top of them, a crop top and silver glitter platforms. I've got no clue what she was supposed to be - a fashion disaster, perhaps? - but there wasn't much between her and a chilly breeze off the river.

Probably the cleverest costume I saw was a guy in a white trash can, the lid perched atop his head to complete his "white trash" disguise. How appropriate given the theme and the neighborhood's roots.

I caught up to my former neighbors to see that she was dressed as a broken doll and he - unwillingly and under duress - was going for an "undead" look with a white face, mussed hair and a heavy overcoat, the latter having been discovered by his wife in the closet of an old house 40 years ago. Surely there's something creepy about that.

One of the women carrying a mouth told me that she lives in California and was here visiting family when they told her about the parade. But it wasn't until she came down tonight that she discovered that there was a political theme to it and she was thrilled.

"That makes it so much more meaningful," she gushed. "I love that I can share my activism by being in a parade. This is just the coolest thing." She turned out to be one of the most animated mouths, too, eagerly trying to obliterate the evil pizza dancing in front of us.

A guy in front of me wore a kilt and carried his baby in a chest carrier and some drunken bystander down by the river spotted the kid and began shrieking in terror. "It's real!" he said, clearly surprised or perhaps just going for effect.

As we made the U-turn by the Oregon Hill overlook, a group of masked, black-clad people joined the parade just in front of me and the pizza gang. Before long, they were chanting, "No Trump! No KKK! No fascist USA!" and another chant about remembering Charlottesville victim Heather Heyer.

A few people looked put out by their injection of Antifa sentiment into the parade, but I've no doubt that Lilly would have welcomed more political commentary. They weren't being violent or even unpleasant, just chanting their concerns. I had no problem walking with them.

But then, I've been doing this parade since it was me and 60 people in 2008 and last year it was me and 1800. This was the first year I saw a drone flying above the parade with a ghost hanging from its undercarriage.

"No more drones! No more drones!" someone began chanting. "No more ghosts! No more ghosts!" another group called out. Why hadn't they chanted, "No more bubbles! No more bubbles! " when we'd walked through a fog of bubbles being generated earlier?

Well, duh, because who doesn't love bubbles? For that matter, who doesn't love a parade? Especially one committed to moving Richmond beyond the legacy of the *#!*! Confederacy.

For crying out loud, a woman in thigh high red boots was so determined to be part of tonight's funeral, she took time off from work to carry a mouth and march for the cause (Rest in shame, Confederacy).

(Cue American flag blowing in the breeze)
We should all be so willing to give of ourselves. Honey, those were four inch heels.

Found Light

Walking is the thread that connects up everything for me in this city.

Usually when I walk to Belle Isle, I come back through Oregon Hill on Pine Street. Today I wanted to walk Laurel instead for fresh views.

In front of just another house, I spotted one of those red-roofed wooden boxes with the clear front intended, usually at least, for real estate fliers about a house for sale. But this house had no for sale sign, so I looked at what was inside.

Poetry. There were several sheets of paper, each with a poem called "Forever Light" inside the box. But the real surprise was the poet's name because it was one familiar to me: Peter LaBerge, whom I'd just seen at a poetry reading at University of Richmond last Wednesday. If I'd stumbled on the box two weeks ago, the name would have meant nothing.

Standing on Laurel Street in the morning sunlight, I knew before reading it that the poem would be dark, elegiac even, and I wasn't wrong. You can learn a lot about a poet from one reading.

More alive
the body unit

Body made visible
after dawn.

Seconds of kissing
a man & I touching.

Body the gods decide 
should riverspin.

Arms and legs
invisible in seconds.

When I wake, a gun
nesting in my place.

Proof a man sunk
is a man inanimate.

Yet surely somewhere
dark there I am.

Chest disintegrating
lips: a feast of blue.

No skin to feed
the earth so I face up.

Bones green from a long
bed of moss.

Memory, a shorn path
through the forest.

Yet still regret is silver
and more silver.

Body beaming light
through the trees

It's Poetry Month, so perhaps Peter left the poems in the box for nerds like me who might appreciate poetry wherever we find it. Maybe he was simply curious whose eyes might alight on the box and investigate its contents. Walking is its own reward, but found poetry felt like a deliberate gift today.

Also a reminder - perhaps not to this young poet, but certainly to a body unit much older than Peter - that regret, silver or any color, is a waste of time and energy. Life's too short.

The Case of the Purloined Bulbs

Yes, Karen, there is a Santa Claus. And he's a drummer.

When I got home last night, it was to a Facebook message from a stranger.

Hi Karen - I'm Todd and I live in Oregon Hill. A friend of mine found a box ripped open and discarded by a trash can in a Jackson Ward alley that was filled with hyacinth and tulip bulbs. Assuming it was discarded, he gave it to me, knowing I'm a gardener. I saw your name on the box and looked it up on Facebook. I just wanted to make sure that they weren't stolen and discarded. If these are yours, I want to make sure to get them back to you. If not, I'll be happy to plant them. I will wait to hear from you before I do. Please let me know and best wishes! Todd

Last week I'd ordered dozens of pink, purple and white hyacinth and tulip bulbs to plant in my tiny front yard to ensure color come Spring. Every day since, I'd been expecting the package, but also allowing for the fact that it's the busiest package delivery time of the year.

Honestly, if Todd hadn't e-mailed me, I wouldn't yet be concerned that they hadn't arrived. Now I was just grateful for the kindness of a stranger and the power of Facebook.

We went back and forth joking about how disappointed the thief must have been when he tore into my package and found nothing but bulbs. After a while messaging, we finally decided to get together today to do the exchange of the purloined bulbs (his phrase and a terrific one). Seems he's on break from work and suggested I meet him at his garden. Once he told me where it was, I knew exactly because I'd seen it so many times.

Across from the Byrd House market is a large lot which I'd always presumed was a community garden plot. Nope, it's Todd's and there he grows eight kinds of garlic, asparagus, onions, hickory nuts (which, he told me, are fabulous for filtering city air) and cherries. And that's just part of it.

"Do you like shiitake mushrooms?" he asked, leading me to what looked like a woodpile. Attached to the oak logs were plump, beautiful shiitakes sprouting and he promptly began cutting them off to go in a brown paper bag for me to take home. All the while, we're talking. He told me his Dad grew up a block away and I told him mine was born a block behind Carytown. We marveled over how much less space people used to require in their houses.

Curious about what he was on break from, I asked. Wouldn't you just know that my bulb savior was not just on the music staff at VCU and UR but a musician in bands I knew of? Once we got to talking about music, we discovered all kinds of minimal degrees of separation. In addition to bulbs, I have some new bands to check out, too.

Before I left, I did two things. I asked for his favorite shiitake preparation and he supplied it, along with the endorsement that it made them taste like bacon. And I hugged him, thanking him for being the kind of person who doesn't just accept someone else's package, but takes the time to play sleuth and good Samaritan.

As far as I'm concerned, Santa lives in Oregon Hill and now we're friends on Facebook.

I got my gift from him, but he won't get his till Spring. I think he'll appreciate a bouquet of tulips.

War and Work

Productive, yes; social enough, not even close.

My brain woke me up at 5:15 so that I could have an hour-long conversation in my head with myself about something that's apparently been bothering me. Let's hope we worked that out so it doesn't happen again.

When I finally awoke, it was to a message from my favorite ex-cop inviting me to the river for crabs and a lesson on the sail-yak ("I'm pretty sure I could teach you in 30 minutes or less!") but, alas, my inbox also informed me I had all kinds of obligations rearing their heads, so I reluctantly declined.

My walk to the river brought me up Cherry Street, a route I hadn't walked before. A shame since it yielded a charming house hidden behind an overgrown archway with a fat cat sunning on the brick walkway, a profusely flowering rose garden oddly placed between the sidewalk and street and a gaggle of teen-aged girls who were lost and needed my guidance to Mama Zu.

Coming back through Monroe Park, my eye was caught by an installation, "Eyes Wide Open Virginia" coordinated by Quakers Richmond Friends Meeting.

Consisting of pairs of army boots, each labeled with the name and Virginia birthplace of a fallen soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq (some with small flags, pictures or flowers) and regular shoes representing slain civilians (the children's shoes a heartbreaking reminder of the cost of war), it was a moving tribute to victims of this endless-seeming war effort.

After lunch, an interview in Church Hill had me talking with two writers about the solitary life of a writer and how frequently this profession is made up of introverts, although clearly I am the exception to that rule. By the time I finish a solitary day, I want nothing so much as company, be it familiar or strangers.

Despite sunshine and 77 degrees outside, my afternoon was spent indoors gathering words from my head and shaping them into a coherent form on the monitor screen. I am a woman who understands a deadline.

Instead of my usual dinner plans, I turned the tables and played server for a dinner board meeting, trying to parlay the unobtrusive service skills that have been used on me so often on unsuspecting diners. No one seemed to recognize me for the inexperienced fake I was. But I consider myself a success because the one thing I know for certain is that they never lacked for water or wine .

Nor did I, afterwards enjoying a glass of Ixsir Altitudes Rose (from Lebanon, no less), with a lovely mess of mesclun under crabcakes, payback perhaps for the crabs I didn't get to crack at the river today. Not to mention that my sail-yaking skills are still non-existent.

Not long before my meal, a history nerd friend had told me about a real-time tour (5:45 a.m. Monday morning!) he'd taken at Fort Harrison, regaling me with details of what he'd learned as the group retraced the route of the Union soldiers who took the fort, beginning before daylight.

Intriguing as it sounded to this extroverted history geek, I know myself well enough to know that's one tour I'd never have agreed to attend.

My subconscious may be able to get me up at that ungodly hour, but that's about the only thing that could.

Sitting on Bubba

Imagine being shown up by a couple of newcomers.

Yesterday I'd decided that I was going to walk the North Bank Trail today, with a secondary goal of finding the trail to Texas Beach. If I could because I am directionally-challenged.

I know all this sounds like a modest plan, but take into account that in two decades of living here, I'd never walked either trail.

In fact, the main reason I was doing this at all was because on my way back from Belle Isle yesterday, I'd come through Oregon Hill and seen a sign pointing to the North Bank Trail.

Well, looky there!

With no idea what to expect trail-wise, I set out down the path, which soon changed from paved to gravel to dirt and rocks.

On either side was thick growth and in many spots, a living canopy overhead hemming in the air flow to almost non-existent. Places felt almost rain forest like.

The greenery eliminated any view of the river until I came up a hill and all of a sudden, I had the most sweeping view of the rapids and Belle Isle.

First thought: there ought to be a bench here.

Looking behind me, I saw why. I was at a high point directly in front of Hollywood Cemetery, one of the loveliest river views in the city.

I continued around the bend and there it was: Bubba's bench, with not one, but two plaques designating it as such.

It was a high bench - it came to my hip - so I had to hoist myself up on it like a kid, but the view (and seat) were worth it.

From there I kept going on the path, pausing to let mountain bikers, clutches of runners and and nervous-looking groups of walkers pass me on the narrow trail.

Eventually the shrubbery broke and I saw more of Hollywood Cemetery to my right and not long after another cemetery - Mount Calvary- spreading out beyond the trail.

Signs along the trail warned that parts were considered difficult, mainly due to elevation which in places reached 200' but once you're hot and sweaty, what's a few hills more?

In a couple of places I took shortcuts to avoid loops in the trail, other times I balanced on boards to cross muddy parts of the trail.

Finally I spotted the hiker's best friend, a PortaPotty, and climbed up to the parking lot for Texas Beach. Ta-da! But where was the beach?

I gravitated to the map to see if I was getting close, only to meet a couple already studying it who'd just moved to RVA two days ago.

Warning me that they'd be no help in finding Texas Beach, I nonetheless took the time to welcome them and tell them about Belle Isle, Brown's Island and the pipeline walkway.

I was terribly impressed that they'd been ambitious enough to already be out and experiencing their new city.

We parted company and it didn't take long for me to find the bridge that crosses the railroad tracks (where a coal train sat) and leads to the beach.

Best of all, when I arrived it was completely empty.

It took me no time at all to shed my shoes and socks and wade out into the river up to my shorts (on me, that's over half my body).

The view coupled with the solitude made me feel like I was far from home, a lovely, unexpected experience.

As I was wading out toward the rushing water, I heard voices and turned to see a father and son with fishing poles arriving at the beach.

They had a radio with them -the voices I'd heard- and all of a sudden, the peaceful scene had become a lively one.

Cooled to my core by then anyway, I climbed back on a rock to put my shoes and socks back on and continue my walk, passing a couple and their dog turning into the beach as I left.

Coming back over the bridge to the trail, I again ran into the newcomers and this time we stopped for a longer get-to-know-you chat on the bridge.

From Fairfax, one high school age daughter, live in Short Pump but hope to move to the city once she's off to college.

And guess what they wanted? Restaurant recommendations. Naturally I obliged.

The walk back flew by, perhaps because I recognized landmarks now, although one surprise came at the end of a small bridge where I looked down to see a broken gravestone next to the bridge.

"Katie Low," it said but the end of Katie's last name was broken off. Lowe? Lowell? Lowery? "1877-1941. Rest in peace."

Such an interesting place to be buried, so close to the river but away from the cemeteries.

It was a far quieter walk back with no hikers or bikers passing me as they had earlier. It was also hotter, sunnier and more humid if that was possible, so perhaps wiser souls had gotten their trailing done in the morning.

Not me. I'd set out at 11:00 and by the time I made it back to Jackson Ward, it was 1:30.

Of course, that allowed time for river wading, conversation with strangers, sitting on Bubba's bench twice and one pit stop.

I'd say I did pretty well for a first-timer. But, when strangers express surprise that it's your first time, you know you're way overdue.

Don't worry, I intend to make up for it with future frequency.

I can't wait to take some of my favorite walkers with me. Who'll be the expert then?

I am Queen of the World

I'm on a river roll.

Thursday morning, I walked down to Brown's Island and along the pipeline walkway, where the river level was noticeably low and entire areas around the pipeline were bone dry.

But the most unusual thing about the pipeline Thursday was that I was the sole person on it. That's never happened before.

Yesterday's light mist seemed like an ideal reason to walk down to the river again, only this time I was headed for Belle Isle.

Instead of my usual route behind Ethyl headquarters, I decided to take the steep Second Street connector, which I now know is officially called Brown's Island Way.

What surprised me was all the construction equipment and personnel grading the hill down to the Belle Isle parking lot. Surely they weren't adding more parking on that slope?

Nope, I asked the man who appeared to be in charge and he said it was for Folk Fest, where the stage will be in the parking lot and the hill will be for the audience. So now I knew.

Crossing the pedestrian bridge, I was greeted by all kinds of new graffiti on the path, including such bon mots as "Carpe diem" and everybody's new favorite, "YOLO."

Believe me, no one is a bigger proponent of "you only live once" than me, although not similarly inclined to scrawl it on park property.

People were scarce on Belle Isle, a shame given how beautiful a day it was, a landscape of silver and green punctuated with scores of birds feeding and frolicking in the river.

Eventually I settled on a rock, umbrella overhead, and within a matter of minutes, three young boys came scampering in front of me, their mother trailing behind and apologizing for them interrupting my quiet time.

I assured her I came to the river for sound, not silence.

The oldest of the boys, maybe 7 or 8 at most, mounted a rock jutting out over rushing water and shouted, "I am the king of the world!" to the river.

Water is power.

The climb back up Brown's Island Way was a calf-buster, but a worthy cap to a beautiful, gray morning.

So today I got up and over breakfast contemplated where I might want to walk today, coming to the conclusion that I wanted to go right back down to Belle Isle.

When I got to the connector, though, the construction site was quiet, the machinery frozen in place like a petrified machinery forest.

I took this as a sign to cut through the enormous dirt hill even though it was cordoned off.

I knew it was steep so I purposely started off slow but I hadn't taken into account yesterday's day and evening-long rain and once lost my footing, almost ending up taking a mud bath on the hill before miraculously righting my uncoordinated self and gingerly finishing the trek down.

Nothing like a little adrenaline rush after breakfast.

Over on the island, I encountered plenty of weekend warriors walking dogs, taking pictures and studying trail charts.

Spotting a guy with a camera way out on a rock with glorious proximity to the rushing water, I climbed out to join him.

Turns out he was positioned to take photos of the kayaks coming down the river so I also got a fabulous view of their arrival in jellybean-bright boats.

They seemed to be a seasoned bunch, making u-turns in the rapids and flipping their kayaks underwater and back up with ease.

Taking their time moving downriver, I followed them, enjoying the fragrant breeze in my face and tempted to shout my own water-inspired proclamation,

Staying on the rocks until I no longer could, I stepped over pools of water in the rocks and eventually climbed back up on the path.

Once I got to the pedestrian bridge, I looked over toward the Civil War P.O.W. sheds only to see a photo shoot going on with a pretty brunette in a red dress posing with her leg in the air.

Just another morning on Belle Isle.

Since I'd just endured the nearly vertical walk up Brown's Island Way yesterday, today I opted to come back through Oregon Hill, passing tourists at the overlook point, a cook taking a cigarette break behind Mama Zu and a yard sale next to Fine Foods (where there is anything but fine food).

Walking up Belvidere, I came upon three young guys panhandling on a corner.

One of the was sitting in the trash can, a goofy straw hat on his head, waving to cars while his buddies held up signs soliciting money.

Spotting me, he grinned and said, "Hi! I'm a real redneck. Can you spare some change?"

Holding up my keys, I said they were all I had with me. Grinning, he held up his hand. "Pretty girl like you? That's worth a high five."

What the hell? I gave him one.

"How about a hug?" he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder to pull me in and knocking his straw hat off in the process.

See what happens when you get pushy? I asked. "It was worth it!" he said, scooping up the hat and putting it back on his head without ever moving out of the trash can.

Just another morning in downtown VCU.

Sliding down mud hills and hugging men in trash cans. You only live once.

Parading the Sinners

I love a parade when I get to be in it.

Tonight's Halloween parade's theme was a "Funeral march for free love, free speech and free thinking," three frees I wouldn't want to live without.

I've been doing the Halloween parade practically every year since 2008, so I knew to show up in Monroe Park, grab a sign to carry (the enormous puppets are just too heavy for me) and follow No BS Brass band as they march through Oregon Hill.

Speaking of, trombonist Reggie looked amazing with African face painting adorning that smiling face.

This year, I chose a sign that read, "Welcome All Saints and Sinners" and a pair of cardboard wings with skulls and flowers on them and took my place in front of the giant pumpkin heads.

Fortunately for me, I wasn't asked to declare myself a sinner or saint in order to qualify to carry the sign.

Traipsing through Oregon Hill's streets lined with onlookers is always a hoot, with everything from people shouting at us (I repeatedly had people yelling what my sign said to me), others throwing candy (I was tempted to pick up a Tootsie Roll, but refrained) and a certain VCU professor dressed as a bee passing out canned "refreshments" to those she knew (not my beverage).

Because it's O-Hill, you see things like an entire family sitting in the bed of their pickup truck watching the parade, Mom and Dad sending one of the three kids inside when they need another beer.

You see darkened porches where the only sign of life is a glowing cigarette butt clenched in someone's teeth.

Mostly you see people with red party cups in one hand and their phone in front of their faces with the other as they watch the parade through a tiny lens.

Don't get me started.

To their credit, one guy in a blue satin dress skated the entire way and another wore curved, metal stilts that looked a lot like the artificial legs of former Olympian Oscar Pistorius.

For a while, I marched next to a girl in a Scarlet O'Hara-by-way-of-Carol-Burnett dress, complete with curtain rod going through the shoulders of the dress.

Another girl complimented her on how pretty it was and she cheekily replied, "I saw it in the window and just had to have it."

Also walking next to me was the infamous Serena Sparkles, who, like me, was immediately suspicious that they knew the source material.

Bolder than me this time, she leaned in, all glittery lips and platform shoes, and asked, "You do know what that costume's from, right?"

One claimed to (the wearer) and the other was clueless.

Someone's got to right the cultural literacy wrongs surrounding us and who better than a drag queen?

As we moved down the hill, I heard hellos from lots of people I knew- servers, DJs, guitarists, artists, organizers - both in the parade and watching from the street.

Even the man-about-town participated, and while masked, it's always pretty easy to spot "The Hat."

As in past years, it's crazy to be part of something where all eyes are on you and cameras are always going off.

No BS are the heart and soul of the parade's energy, though, and after a while I realized I was stepping in time to their music, as were many of the puppet and sign carriers.

After we finished our march, everyone mingled before disbursing to parties and shows. I was meeting friends at Bistro 27 for a much more low-key end to my evening.

We met at the bar in an almost empty restaurant, meaning it was easy to hear the music and took no time at all for us to get wine and dinner salads while we watched the crowds of costumed people walk by the big glass windows.

It's like our own, private freak show.

"Is that a man or woman?" someone asked about a scantily-clad person stumbling drunkenly across Broad Street.

"With that much back hair, you better hope it's a man!" another cracked.

For no reason, we got off on youthful memories, like the first time your college boyfriend sleeps over in the guest room and you get caught by your strict father sneaking back to your bedroom naked in the morning.

"Good morning, sir," was all the guilty party could manage, which sent the rest of us into hysterics.

No recriminations, no apologies, just a civilized greeting. In other words, pretty saintly behavior for a sinner.

I wouldn't know from saintly. I never got caught.

Dead Doings

Tonight was Richmond's 5th Annual Halloween parade, and like the last two, yours truly was a part of the march through Oregon Hill. The theme was "A Funeral March for the Dead" but the mood was anything funereal.

It always starts in Monroe Park where participants, costumed and otherwise (I felt like my Parisian Leo tights were enough), choose masks, puppets, signs and other effects to carry. After making the mistake of choosing something too heavy the first year, I now opt for a more manageable sign. But I carry it really well, if I do say so myself.

A stranger immediately greeted me and after bit of chatting, I learned that it was his first parade, so I answered his questions about the parade process. Organizer Lily saw me and came over, saying, "Karen, I love you!' the best possible greeting I could have hoped for.

This year's sign said, "We fight for the people and we die anyway" which I learned made me "Iraqi girl" when an organizer referred to me that way to the people following me. I was right behind the two people each wearing the giant skull heads that went down past their shoulders and in front of an enormous puppet that was carried aloft by three people.

I was joined by two musician friends, one playing accordion and the other a sort of panpipe, so I had musical accompaniment to hoist my sign to. Let me tell you, after moving that sign up and down rhythmically to the music for an hour, I was more than ready to lose it.

But the parading is so much fun and the crowds so enthusiastic that the time passes quickly. Periodically we'd be showered with bubbles and occasionally the wind would kick up, challenging my ability to keep my sign upright (it was like a sail going down in the wind), bur mostly we just smiled and had our pictures taken by onlookers. And they cheered a lot for us, but then, almost all of them had a drink in hand.

And it wasn't just the crowds who were snapping pictures and shooting video. A guy dressed as Prince, complete with toy guitar, and walking near me, shot photos of more than one colorful- looking O-Hill resident as we passed by.

I almost ran into him when he stopped short to shoot a neighbor in a mu-mu with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a can of Schlitz in her hand; when she smiled for the camera, she revealed as many missing teeth as those present. Say cheese.

When we reached the endpoint, we dropped our parade paraphernalia to listen to the music and mingle with other parade walkers for a bit. You never know who's in the parade behind you until the end of it all. And that's when everybody checks with everybody else to see who's going where next.

I'd already decided that my next stop would be the Night of the Living Dead bands show at Strange Matter. Just this afternoon, I'd run into a friend in Carytown who was also planning to go and a musician friend was one of the performers in Led Zepplica. No way I could pass this up.

The place was a zoo by the time I walked back from Oregon Hill, with a core group of non-stop fist-pumpers and even moshing up front. I'm not positive who was performing, although it may well have been the Misfits cover band. Or maybe Bad Religion.

In any case, when their ear-bleedingly loud set ended and the thrashing stopped, I asked a nearby fan if I'd missed Led Zepplica and was told I had. Sad face. I'd missed my opportunity to hear my beautiful music-loving friend do his best classic rock imitation and who knows when an opportunity like that will present itself again?

When he'd first told me about it, he'd presented it as " a show you'd probably rather skip." As you might guess, he's a new friend and doesn't know me very well yet.

But he'll learn. I don't skip many shows when someone I know is playing. There's no telling what I might see or hear that would enable me to give him endless crap about.

And isn't that the stuff friendships are made of?

Girls Rock in Oregon Hill

I spent the evening in my favorite working class neighborhood, nearby Oregon Hill or as the local restaurant critics are lately proclaiming it, "the upcoming restaurant row dining destination."

Whatever.

I went for cheap (but good eats) and backyard movies, the pleasures of the working class.

Luckily for me, O-Hill is within walking distance because trying to park over there on a school night is pointless.

When I rolled up to 821 cafe, it was fairly quiet and I joined the barsitters, half of whom were the day shift who'd just gotten off and were enjoying happy hour beers (rail bourbon shots $2) and trash talking a fellow employee who'd come in wasted the night before.

They know me at 821, so I don't have to place my food order, only my beverages of choice.

Tonight's music was mostly punk and thrash, not my first choice, but definitely preferable to classic rock, country or Top 40.

The server sitting next to me told me that she no longer even hears the music during her shift.

I can't imagine being that music-oblivious, even while working, but perhaps she's just tuning out someone else's musical choices.

That I could see; I would have to tune out Journey.

Afterwards I strolled over to the Flying Brick Library, a radical lending library in an old house on Pine Street.

Tonight they were having a benefit for the Richmond 'Zine Fest, showing two documentaries, Grrlyshow and Girls Rock.

 It was such a beautiful night to be sitting outside under the stars watching a movie on a fabric screen strung up between the fences.

Grrlyshow had interviews with some of the seminal figures in founding girly 'zines like Bust and Bamboo Girl, created by a generation of third-wave feminists.

Discussing that subject with a friend who's a Women's Studies professor after the film, we concluded that we're currently on the cusp of fourth-wave feminism, unbelievable as that sounds.

Girls Rock was a documentary about the annual five-day music camp in Portland, Oregon for 8-18 year old girls.

They choose a musical genre, learn to play an instrument, come up with a band name, write a song, and perform live for 700 people.

All the while, bickering and developing friendships with their band mates.

The film follows a few girls in depth and each is captivating and heartbreaking in her own way.

Given their ages, the girls are all in the throes of discovering who they are and the camp helps them appreciate themselves for the individuals they are.

Musicians like Carrie from Sleater-Kinney teach the campers girl-power lessons in between band practices and female bands perform during lunch every day.

You could actually see the girls becoming more comfortable in their own skins over the course of the week.

Many in the mostly female audience were charmed by the strength of character of a couple of the youngest girls, but they seemed like divas-in-the-making to me.

I'd be curious to see a follow-up piece about what those girls are like now.

Afterwards, a volunteer from the Portland camp shared her experiences there and spoke of her desire to start a similar rock camp for girls in Richmond.

With all the strong female musicians in this town, we'd probably be a natural for such a thing.

I'd have said we could hold it in Oregon Hill, where you can't walk down the street without hearing a band practicing, but restaurant row probably won't approve of pint-size shredding and high-pitched screaming.

More's the pity for that.