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.

Saddle Up and Follow Me

I played follow the leader for a novel walking experience today.

Coming back east on Grace, I paused at Meadow and saw two mounted policemen emerging from the alley, headed for the next alley.

Cue walker to join the horse queue.

Walking down sun-dappled alleys behind two horses on a crisp fall morning, it occurred to me that Spielberg had missed an opportunity.

The Washington Post recently ran a piece about the great lengths the director went to in recreating historical sounds for "Lincoln."

An original watch of Lincoln's was used to simulate a pendulum.

The squeak of latches at the White House were recorded and used.

Also, the ring of the bell at the church he attended.

All well and good.

But the sound of horse hooves on cobblestones that I was hearing today would have been an ideal one to record for the movie.

There is such a beautiful cadence, an historical rhythm to the sound of horses clopping.

Passing a couple smoking cigarettes in the alley, the girl smiled and asked me, "Trying to keep up?"

As I followed my equine lead admiring their graceful and sinuous gaits, I kept hoping that they'd lead me all the way back to Jackson Ward.

But it was not to be.

When we got to Ryland, they told me they were going to loop around and head back west.

When I told them how much I enjoyed their regular visits to my neighborhood, one grinned and said, "Yea, but we gotta spread it around."

I'm hoping they were talking about mounted squad good will and not horse pies.

But what I'm really hoping is for a chance to follow them again.

Picture Postcard Perfect

Today's absolutely perfect Richmond moment was a first for me, despite years living in this city.

Driving down Monument Avenue I saw two mounted officers trotting down the wide median, verdant trees on either side of them and the sky a blue that no crayon could capture.

The cops looked mighty content, but my first thought was that the horses must be loving their grassy stroll.

As always, I marvel at being in the right place at the right time.

This town never ceases to delight me.

Whew, That Was a Close One

And to think I almost didn't go out to lunch today. And if I hadn't, I would have missed meeting the reason we have the Indian Garden Pavilion . But wait, there's more; I'd have missed seeing a horse pull over a scofflaw.

A friend messaged me during breakfast (made without the benefit of a stove since I had no gas due to the endless repairs still ripping up my street daily. It was my very first microwaved breakfast and hopefully my last) asking if I wanted to have lunch at Garnett's.

I didn't immediately respond because my game plan for today was set: get some work done and then maybe some housekeeping since I've been too busy lately to bother. But as noon was approaching, the thought of company was just too appealing and I caved. Lunch was on.

Garnett's was mobbed despite street repairs making it a royal pain to get anywhere near the place. Friend was already there and I wasted no time in jumping into conversation. She always has news and for a change so did I.

Looking for something new, I decided to try the farm salad with romaine, Cheddar, apples, bacon and apple cider vinaigrette. Cheddar, apples and bacon, now there's a triumvirate of flavors meant to be savored together.

While friend was otherwise occupied, a guy sat down in the stool next to me and mentioned that he hadn't been to Garnett's in months. Once he gave me the opening, I had to run with it. He looked like an interesting guy and I would have bet money that he worked in an arts-related field.

It was better than I could have hoped for. He is a former sculptor who now restores art, mostly sculpture. Today he was working over at Maymont restoring a lion's finish where countless hands have rubbed the finish away.

His is the company that restored the Indian Garden Pavilion at the VMFA. That 19th century white marble pavilion is easily one of the most beautiful and arresting large pieces in the museum.

He told me of how he originally saw the pavilion piled in pieces and "crumbled like Saltines." It took five years of painstaking work to make it whole again and thinking back to having seen its magnificence just last month during Fine Arts and Flowers, I was awed to be talking to the man who had had a hand in such a monumental task.

I could have talked to him about nothing else but that project (career-defining, I would think), but put my selfishness aside. We talked about the original culture shock of moving to RVA, me from DC and him from NYC. He told me about a little French restaurant he'd recently found in Washington and asked me for restaurant recommendations here.

Eventually I went back to talking to my friend because she hadn't heard my news, and as part of the catalyst for my change of heart, she needed to know. "It's about time," she said grinning widely, "but I've been telling you that." She has indeed.

At this rate, I'm going to have some version of this exact same conversation with every one of my good friends. At least I'm making them happy and not a little smug for having told me so.

Driving back to J-Ward, the mounted police were in full force (that means three of them) on Marshall Street. I watched as a guy made a rolling stop at Monroe and the horse and cop immediately waved him down. I was three cars back, so by the time I got to the lawbreaker, the cop was off his steed and had his ticket book out.

You really have to see a horse-mounted cop make a traffic stop to appreciate the scale of horse to car. Did the guy really think he could flout the law and get away with it because the cop was on an animal? It made my day seeing the law upheld in Jackson Ward the way it was enforced a century ago.

Look what I would have missed if I hadn't gone out desperately seeking company. Not to mention a really good lunch at Garnetts. Again.

I Walk to Talk

I know that not everybody likes to walk as much as I do. Hell, a neighbor told me the other day that she drives to Rite Aid and we live TWO blocks from the place. I'll admit I like it for the exercise, but it's mainly because you never know who you'll end up talking to when you're on foot.

Walking to the Census training this morning, there was this girl coming toward me with her ear buds in and I didn't even see her glance up at me, but as we came upon each other, she smiled and said rather loudly (I guess because of her music), "Great style!" How random was that compliment? I have to say, though, she made my morning.

Walking home for lunch, I came upon two mounted officers at the corner of Monroe and Marshall. I always get a kick out of seeing horses on cobblestone in Jackson Ward, but something was different this time. One of them was pointing a gun-like device down the street and being the oblivious sort, I had to be told it what it was and that they were targeting speeders.

I couldn't have been happier if they were handing out $20 bills. I've always taken issue with people who speed through city neighborhoods, treating them like thoroughfares and ignoring the fact that people live and play there. I told the cop that I was a neighbor and how pleased I was about what they were doing. He said that they've started a campaign in the 'hood to address the problem. Hallelujah, they're targeting speeders, stop sign-runners and red light-runners in the 'hood for the foreseeable future.

When they mentioned red light running, I asked about that nightmare intersection at Belvidere and Broad and was told that it and the Belvidere and Leigh intersections take the dubious prize for most accidents of all city intersections. I was not in the least surprised having seen people run red lights there with impunity every single day of my life and it irks me no end. Needless to say, that assignment won't go to the mounted unit.

Nor should it. It's enough that they're in J-Ward nabbing speeders and chatting up walking neighbors like me.

Horses in the 'Hood

Nothing in the world sounds like horse hooves.

So when I'm in front of my house raking leaves today and I hear that peculiar sound on a beautiful November afternoon, it makes me ridiculously happy.

Not like falling in love happy or winning the lottery happy, but just happy that I live in a city where mounted police officers (in this case, one male, one female) have been patrolling the streets for over a century.

Happy that horses are still walking Clay Street decades after motorized transportation replaced them in the name of speed and cleanliness.

And it's not just me who is so taken.

A schoolboy walking home from the bus stop is riveted in his tracks.

A young woman walking a dog freezes as she turns the corner and spots them; her dog keeps going and she doesn't.

My raking is completely forgotten.

The only jarring moment is when the police radio squawks.

And then they're off down the street, clopping that wonderful horse hoof sound.

J-Ward, I love you.