Itsy Bitsy, Teeny Weeny

The best time to watch a depressing movie is after a day spent with my parents.

Ostensibly, I was there to help Mom clean out a closet that she felt had gotten out of control. In reality, that meant digging through decades of her stuff. We must have come across 15 purses, including several I suggested she could live without. "But I've had that purse since the year I started working at the Fund!" she says, affronted, clutching a navy blue bag.

P.S. Mom began working at the International Monetary Fund in 1967.

And bags, so many bags. Grocery shopping bags, a  tapestry knitting bag (no, she doesn't knit or do needlework), tiny, stylish bags that belong to another era when she didn't carry so much "just in case" in her purse.

But it also meant digging through boxes and boxes of unorganized photos and as I glanced through them, I found a handful depicting me and my five sisters posed in bikinis in front of the ocean. In the '70s pictures when we're pre-teens and teens, we're all sporting long, straight hair parted in the middle, but in the '80s version, everyone's hair is shorter and, for the most part, permed.

There's not a pair of sunglasses in sight in either photo, despite the bright summer sun.

By the time I found a group shot from 2004 aboard a boat (although the where and why escapes me), we are all grown women looking far more comfortable in our own skin. Only one sister wears a hat and, surprisingly, it's not me. And everyone except me has sunglasses on.

What a difference 30 years make.

Mom also enjoyed the stroll down Memory Lane, never more than when we came across the sole photograph of her as a child. During the Depression, snapping pictures of your first born was clearly not a priority.

Because it was such a beautiful day to be on the river - sunny, breezy and near 80 - we spent a lot of time, including lunch, on the screened porch. Mom and Dad were just coming off two days without power after Hurricane Michael and one of my nephews was there doing yard clean-up after so many branches fell.

For lunch, I reverted to childhood, making everyone fried bologna and cheese or grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, a big bowl of potato chips in the center of the table. Everyone was delighted with the menu. Afterward, I baked a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and served them up warm because I like to eat the dough my family is big on cookies fresh from the oven.

I shared with Dad what Mr. Wright had said about his spot-on baseball play-off picks - that it's rare to find an athletic man who's also analytical - to which he responded, "That's undoubtedly because so many athletes think they can coast solely on that." Not my Dad.

Closet and yard work finished, we lingered most of the afternoon chatting about family and trips.

"I could take an entire season of this weather," my Mom commented to no one in particular as a breeze ruffled the ferns on the porch. Me, I was just happy to be in shorts and not feel cold like I had most of the weekend.

And solely because I'd just come off such a sweetly pleasant day with the 'rents, I took a deep breath and headed to the Byrd Theater to see "The Hours." Now, I read the book when it came out and I saw the movie but my collective memory of both was a depressing one, so I knew that going in.

Instead of staying there, though, I focused on what a large and stellar cast the film had. Oh, sure there were the leads (Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, Nicole Kidman in a prosthetic nose), but also a terrific Ed Harris. And Claire Danes as the daughter, Miranda Richardson as her sister, Allison Janney as Meryl's lover, plus John C. Reilly and Jeff Daniels.

Do we make movies with that much star power any more or is it too cost-prohibitive?

The Byrd crowd was small. I suppose not everyone is up to being depressed on a Monday evening. For me, the low point was when a toddler went running across the lobby, her mother in chase, before the film even began.

"If you don't stop when I say 3, no computer for a week!" the mother yelled at the back of the four-year old, who did indeed slow down. Not "no bike" or "no going outside to play." No computer. Children can now be disciplined with the threat of no device usage.

Oh, for the sweet days of bikinis and no sunglasses...

Elementary, my Dear Freud

Leave it to Richmond to overreact before Flo even touches down.

Don't get me wrong, I'm as concerned about the potential damage of a Category 3 storm as much as anybody along this part of the east coast. Who wouldn't be terrified reading that they've measured 83' waves under the northeast quadrant of Hurricane Florence?

But did we really need to start canceling events tonight, before Florence even makes landfall? Mac and I had plans to stroll over to the ICA for "The Future is Afro-Femme: New Negress Film Society" to take in a variety of short indie films presented by the New York-based film collective, but VCU squelched that by closing down tight, effective tonight through Sunday.

Seriously, VCU?

The weather has been brooding all day. When I left for my walk, the top third of the Art Deco Central National Bank building was shrouded in fog, as was the crane looming over the Dominion HQ being built downtown (because, of course Virginia's shadow government needs to have the tallest building in the city). The canal was unusually high, with not a duck in it. Brown's Island felt like a pressure cooker it was so oppressive and the James was lapping over the pipeline.

Not one to be daunted by impending weather, Mac and I simply made other plans. No one's going to take away our evening if we can help it.

When she came to pick me up, she was frazzled, having had to run the gauntlet of crazed drivers headed to and from the grocery store in addition to the usual September problems brought on by students who can't walk, much less drive, impeding traffic at every turn and making her late. Put another way, Mac is an easygoing woman who showed up at my house frustrated by the short drive from Byrd park to J-Ward.

By the time we made it to 821 Café by the most circuitous route imaginable, she was saying she'd be needing a drink with dinner. For Mac, that's a major indicator.

My problem was that after a busy afternoon with no breaks to snack, I was all but monosyllabic. When I realized that, I apologized, saying that a wise man once told me that if I'm quiet, it means one of two things: I'm hungry or I'm tired.

I got nearly nine hours last night, so clearly my issue was food, a problem easily corrected with a half order of black bean nachos while Mac tried to forget about the legions of bad drivers with a BLT and a cocktail. By the end of the meal, we were both in happier moods.

And little did I know, but there was laughter in our future, too.

Walking down the aisle to find seats at the Byrd, we passed an older man sitting in one of the raggedy old seats. Since the theater was uncrowded, it seemed like an odd choice. Why have a spring poking at your butt when you can sit in a wide, comfy new seat? Apparently the man realized this and moved to a seat in front of us, despite the hundreds of free seats not near others. Once the lights went down, he slid down in his seat and promptly went to sleep, only occasionally rousing himself for a moment before dozing off again.

I can't explain 'em, I just observe 'em.

As for our reason for being there, I'd suggested seeing "The Seven-Per-Cent Solution," not because I'm a Sherlock Holmes fan but because it was a 1976 movie - a period of filmmaking I adore - and the cast was fabulous.

From Broadway star Nicol Williamson - whom I'd seen at the Kennedy Center in the '70s in "Rex" - to Vanessa Redgrave ("her head of flaming red hair was celebrated on four continents"), not to mention a dapper Alan Arkin in a handsome beard (as Sigmund Freud), a young Robert Duval as Watson, Joel Gray as a bad guy and even Sir Laurence Olivier as the real villain, it was a primo group of acting talent.

So while I'd chosen it for the era and the actors, the movie ended up being downright hilarious, which I hadn't expected at all. Because I don't know the Sherlock Holmes canon, I have no clue whether or not Holmes is always played as an understated and droll wit with encyclopedic knowledge and a magnifying glass.

Even the credits made us laugh. "The story is true...only the facts have been made up."

As I anticipated, the movie melded the Victorian period squarely with the '70s, as evidenced by the décor, costumes and especially the women's hairstyles. Watson's drawing room looked like a cross between an antique store and a fern-filled college dorm circa 1972. Dated lines like, "The ladies do seem to cause trouble, don't they?" reeked of SOP male chauvinism.

Even the story about Holmes being addicted to cocaine seemed straight out of the Studio 54 era, as did his reason for taking it up: "to relieve the ennui." The struggle is real.

But the visuals were wonderful, from a sword fight atop a steam engine train to a library with a two-story bookshelf to a scene of Lipizzaner stallions attempting to trample our heroes inside a large building. Can't say I recall the last time I saw horses used as killing machines.

Best of all, the film ended with Holmes cured of his cocaine addiction and persecution complex by Freud. He then takes off alone on a cruise, where he just happens to find himself on a deck chair next to Vanessa Redgrave's character, Lola Devereaux.

Lola: Journeys alone are always so tedious, don't you find? Specially when they are long.
Holmes: Will this be a long journey?
Lola: That all depends. But I do think it will seem shorter if there are two of us, don't you?
Holmes: I hope it will not seem too short.

I have it on the best authority that the best journeys are neither short nor solo. As for relieving ennui, everyone knows only boring people get bored.

Blowing the Bloody Doors Off

I was utterly seduced at the Byrd by a 49-year old Brit.

No, no, it's not like that. That base is covered by my favorite cinephile, who'd agreed to join me for my first viewing of "The Italian Job," a 1969 movie I knew nothing about but couldn't wait to see. Not because it was a heist movie (rarely one of my favorite genres, though this was as much a comedy caper as heist film) but because I'm such a fan of '60s and '70s film.

And let me tell you, "The Italian Job" did nothing to dissuade me from my attraction to that era. That it was a British film only made it that much more appealing because that meant fewer Hollywood cliches. Need proof? Only one of the seven or so cars toppling over a cliff burst into flames.

What I love about films from those heady years is, well, everything. Sure, there was a young Michael Caine - okay, he was 36, but he looked impossibly young - but also a very old Noel Coward holding his own and a surprisingly fresh-faced Benny Hill eagerly ogling and fondling every large bottom he saw.

But it was more than casting.

A movie that opens with a man in a Lamborghini driving a winding road through the Alps in Italy is going to get my inner traveler sighing at for the sheer beauty of the scenery.

A movie scored by Quincy Jones can't help but keep my attention, from "On Days Like These," the romantic opening song to the hilarious cast singalong of "The Self Preservation Society" as the heist getaway winds down.

A movie about a bunch of young Brits stealing gold in Turin, Italy has several major fashion points going for it. Besides a listing in the credits for "shirtmaker," there's the killer Carnaby Street wardrobe of the Brits. So groovy.

You haven't seen 1969 fashion until you've seen Michael Caine in a leather vest and white ascot or a double-breasted suede jacket. And gloves, so many gloves, on both men and women. And you certainly never saw thieves like Caine's gang, all dressed in fitted blue jumpsuits (because we were all wearing jumpsuits back then) to pull off the job with style and panache.

Hell, even the Italian guy working the jackhammer had on a fitted shirt, flared pants and stylish black shoes, as if he had wooing plans right after work.

I got an inkling of the Mini connection in the lobby when we were getting popcorn before the movie even began. When I asked a guy I'd met at a Modern Richmond event why he'd come, he said he was part of the "Mini group." Sure enough, lined up out front on Cary Street was a line of Minis, a nod to the car's importance in the film.

Manager Todd told the audience beforehand that Fiat had offered to supply countless cars for filming purposes as well as underwrite $50,000 of the movie's production cost, but the filmmakers insisted that British thieves had to have British cars, Minis specifically.

The three Minis - a red, a white and a blue - did some major showing off over the course of the heist, from driving on the lip of a dam to driving the rooftop test track of a Fiat factory (I couldn't have been the only one gobsmacked that such a thing existed) to driving through a sewer tunnel. Hell, after the heist, each mini drove up ramps connected to a moving truck that was to be their hiding place.

It was perfectly clear why there had been damn good reason to alert local Mini drivers about the screening. And while I've never driven one, I know they had to be sitting up taller in their seats watching 1969 Minis put through their paces.

And when you get right down to it, the worst violence in "The Italian Job" was against cars. They were crunched up by machinery, sent flying off mountains and driven down steps in shopping arcades. Even when the Brits are taking the Italian gold, the worst they do to the security detail is hit them with billy clubs and spray paint their windows.

Tell me an American heist movie without guns, explosions or other gratuitous violence. Or, better yet, don't bother, because I have no intention of seeing it anyway.

Best of all, the movie ended without a neat Hollywood wrap-up. While the gang has the gold, they're also hanging off a cliff and unsure how to snag it without sending the bus over the mountain to suffer the same fate as the Lamborghini, the Minis and some Jaguars.

If you want to talk Meyer Briggs, I can assure you that to an ENFP such as myself, that lack of resolution is positively life-affirming. We don't need no stinkin' conclusion. What I do need is more '60s and '70s movies in my life.

Because on days like these, a movie with a miniskirt-clad woman climbing out of a sports car without opening the door is enough to give me a new life goal.

After all, anyone can drive a Mini.

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?

Be For Real

As a long-time reader had to remind me today, "Too fine a day outside for us to be on the keyboard."

Amen, brother.

For the second weekend in a row, my passion for Nate's Bagels had me headed to his pop-up, this one at Blue Bee Cider, an easy walk for Mac and me, especially for the conversational time it afforded after not having seen each other in over a week and missing each other's smiling faces.

As we'd hoped, we were first in line as Nate got set up and ready to do business.

With Mac's glass of Blue Bee's bold-tasting Heirophant, an ice cider that's been fermented to dry, we took our bagels outside to the patio, the better to dish and chow down concurrently. And while we'd been the cidery's first visitors today, the next 10 arrived within minutes of us.

But, oh, the sheer pleasure of crunching down through that magnificent crust with its satisfying chew. We'd have walked far further than 2 1/2 miles to snag one.

I thought we were leaving to walk back but Mac led us directly to King of Pops where she had an orange dream pop and I, ever a creature of habit, succumbed to a chocolate sea salt pop, both eaten as we wound our way through Scott's Addition and back toward the Ward.

Despite the reminder from that favorite reader, I had no choice but to spend part of this fine day inside, having bought a ticket to see "The Sad and Beautiful World of Sparklehorse" at the Byrd back in mid-March.

After finding a seat in my favorite row, I listened as the crowd of a certain age filtered in, inevitably recognizing each other (one guy climbing over another: "Oh, it's you!" and another asking his seat mate about his kids) because so many in the crowd had either known Mark Linkous when he was part of the Richmond scene, or had been long-time fans of his music.

Spotting a lanky friend making his way down the aisle, I called for him to take advantage of the empty seat beside me, only to hear that he knew almost everyone sitting around me (which undoubtedly makes him far cooler than me).

The documentary was indeed sad and beautiful, like its subject, and much of that was because of its painful truth that untreated mental illness is a reality no one deserves, even the poor, even the musicians, even the uninsured.

It was also an unadulterated treat to hear so much lo-fi Sparklehorse music with its distinctive hushed vocals (he usually recorded while his wife was asleep upstairs and he didn't want to wake her) and utterly poetic sound.

Afterward, the music crowd gathered in clumps on the sidewalk in front of the Byrd, sharing impressions and memories. I heard a favorite couple greeted with, "Hi, chicken people!" (they liked it), was introduced to David Lowery (who'd been a talking head in the film), queried the Man About Town on his recent bout of bubonic plague ("It was just the flu") and held a movie poster so its owner could roll a cig.

When the Nerd - at least as big a geek as me, except he's also a singer/guitarist, which lifts him out of full nerd-dom - asked if I was off to the Bijou for the next film, I admitted to a need to eat, causing him to metaphorically roll his eyes. "I have an apple in the car to tide me over," he said before dashing to the Bijou.

Clearly he was the superior festival-goer with that kind of planning.

But once I'd put on the feedbag, I walked over to the Bijou for the Silent Music Revival, the James River Film Festival's final event of the weekend, with the Richmond Avant Improv Collective - a group I'd only seen for the first time a couple of months ago - improvising a soundtrack with a vocalist. They did it first to the 1924 classic "Ballet Mechanique" and then to 1928's "Seashell and the Clergy Man."

You couldn't really ask for a more suitable group to come up with a score on the fly for surrealistic films than this group, and that's organizer Jameson's real strength: pairing just the right local band with his choice of obscure silent film. I've been watching him do it for 10 years now and he only gets better.

Even Mike, one of the JRFF creators, admitted to being blown away seeing his first Silent Music Revival tonight and understanding how sublime the combination of silent film and live band is when witnessed.

Film over, I invited a teaching friend on Spring Break this week over for some record listening, knowing he usually pleads to early mornings and couldn't use that excuse this time. Asking for nothing more than a year as a starting point, he offered up 1973, because, he said, when he looks at the songs he plays on his radio show, the majority seem to come from that year.

Even though he's a musician and a music geek, I was able to stump him with my 1973 pick of McCartney's "Red Rose Speedway" before moving through Grin (also one he couldn't identify), Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors" (his choice because he and other musicians are covering it soon), Prince's "1999" (spotted as I was flipping through discs because he hadn't heard it in eons), Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes (both of us bowing to that '70s testifying style) and closed out with the Chi-Lites because the Chi-Lites.

The fine day had finally given way to moonlit night, so all bets were off. We, on the other hand, had the windows open listening to obscure '70s and the Sounds of Philly with nary a keyboard in sight.

Mission accomplished, dear reader.

Something's Coming

Anyway, I do not want this to be a negative or stressful thing in your life AT ALL. I would prefer to just go with easy. And, if it's not easy, I'd like to make it easy somehow if I can.

Given the weather, it was a day for easy.

For a change, Mac suggested we start our walk on this 73-degree February day at her house overlooking a sparkling blue-green lake near Maymont and while it's only a couple of miles from me, it's worlds away.

I'm a little bit urban and she's a little bit park.

First clue was the car driving by with "Free Bird" blasting full volume. Can't say that I've ever heard any Lynyrd Skynyrd in J-Ward.

Just in the first five minutes, I heard scores of geese unleashing a near-constant cacophony ("After a while, you don't even hear it," she assures me), a handful of squirrels chasing each other noisily non-stop in the trees above and a couple of massive chunks of tree dropping to the ground unexpectedly as we passed.

But it wasn't Nature that seduced me, it was the route, which began with her announcing that we'd start with a modern house tour which took us past a new take on modern architecture, Richmond's first house in the International style, a mid-century home we'd toured as part of a Modern Richmond open house and several other houses that would have been right at home on the high hills in Los Angeles.

We traipsed over to the Pump House, imagining the people who used to dance on the second floor and marveling at how high the water was, then made our way illegally across railroad tracks toward Texas Beach, crossing wooden walkways over rocks that were new to me, pausing to enjoy the natural air conditioning of waterfalls and climbing our way down steep drop-offs.

We saw a turtle sunning itself on a rock and climbed up into an 18th century stone canal guard house to admire how plumb the intersection of walls still was despite its crumbling state.

Our reward was a rock out in the river where we took off our shoes to give hot feet a cold bath while a girl wearing all pink blasted AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" as she flipped through magazines on a nearby rock.

Everyone has their own way of doing the river and I'm not here to judge hers.

Nor was I one to opt out when Mac later messaged me suggesting apropos of nothing a beginner belly dancing class at Saadia's Juicebox, a new woman-owned place in the Ward I'd been wanting to try anyway, albeit not for dancing.

Light, bright and clean-lined, the space seemed to subliminally suggest you make a good choices. Sometimes, sure. Always, unlikely.

After ordering the Minty Swiss, I checked out the place as kale, pineapple, mint, orange and chard were sliced and diced to be juiced, resulting in a cup o' green that tasted fresh and healthy but still eminently drinkable. Mac went for the raspberry Tumeric (lamenting the mud brown color) before we took deep breaths and headed to the screened-off studio in the back to see about this belly dancing business.

The studio's wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors ensured we could watch the graceful and seductive moves of a pro while we awkwardly tried to follow suit as music of varying types  ("Do you mind bad language?") provided rhythm for our attempts at a West Cost version of fusion belly dancing.

Got that?

Chatting with us about our knowledge of and interest in belly dancing, teacher Sarah enthusiastically explained that she was giving a technique class first and a choreography class afterward. I was equally enthused about explaining that it would be a miracle if we nailed technique tonight, making choreography out of the question.

I can do a lot in an hour, but I'm realistic, too.

Turns out belly dancing is all about isolating muscles and teaching your brain how to make them work independently of each other and while it took me a while to get the hang of working just hip or chest, I was a pro at isolating and pulsing my glutes once we got down on the floor.

Sitting behind her and watching her backside, Mac and I were dazzled when Sarah demonstrated irregular glute pumping patterns (1,2,1,2,2) that get worked into choreography, further proof that we have a long way to go before anyone's going to want to watch us belly dance.

Including ourselves. Or maybe not, depending on the standards of the viewer and how big a fan of hip thrusts and pulsing glutes they might be.

Once knees had been bent, feet planted, pelvises tucked and limbs stretched, Sarah demonstrated a full body ripple, saying encouragingly, "Everybody's done this at some point." I hated to be the one to point out that actually, I hadn't. Not once.

She said she'd strike that from her teaching patter, but I could be the only person on earth who hasn't done it, so the adjustment may be unnecessary.

Admiring the studio's bathroom for its white oval mirror facing a wall covered in faux boxwood, Sarah said it could become a prime selfie destination, perhaps even better than Gallery 5's bathroom, which her friends consider the top spot in the city.

I live four blocks from a bathroom for a decade and I'm just now learning what a fine place it is for this purpose, not that it's relevant for me anyway.

Sarah had greeted me by admiring the color of my lipstick and now she was in awe after learning I live without a cell phone, but deep down, I'm guessing none of it makes up for my lack of ripple skills.

Once properly schooled in belly dancing, we left for the Byrd to see that most relevant of Hollywood musicals, "West Side Story," at Cinema for Cinephiles night.

Manager Todd opened the show by reminding us that the film was dated, so rather politically incorrect - we no longer mock the disabled, unless of course we're running for President -  but also supplying a fun fact: it took so long to write the treatment for the Broadway version that the name was changed from "East Side Story" because by the time it was finished, the gangs had moved.

But I have to say that a story about immigrant assimilation seemed to resonate especially strongly - "In America, everything is possible" - in these trying Trump times with lines like, "Once an immigrant, always an immigrant." Some people seem to forget that pertinent fact.

Life is alright in America
If you're a white in America

But, truth be told, I wasn't there for that as much as I was for Stephen Sondheim's lyrics ("I feel charming, oh so charming, it's alarming how charming I feel") and Jerome Robbins' phenomenal choreography, fine male backsides and actors who did every movement full out, unlike, say, "La La Land," where sloppy modern-day dance standards meant less commitment and fewer sharp movements.

Closer to home, the fluid hips and glutes of the Jets' girlfriends as they danced focused on familiar body parts, reminding me of the isolation exercises we'd just attempted in our beginners' class. I've got to assume they'd have been prime candidates for belly dancing in a way I could never hope to be.

Which doesn't mean I won't try. Even if it's not easy, apparently I am. Take me for a good enough walk and anything is possible.

Even alarming attempts at charming belly dancing.

Let's Go in the Talking Room

The time to make up your mind about people is never.

The time to make plans to see one of the pithiest romantic comedies of the past 75 years - and make reservations at Spoonbread - was weeks ago. Pru and Beau collected me shortly before sunset and we navigated around VCU because of tonight's basketball game, of which we were all completely unaware.

We landed upstairs at Spoonbread this visit, sipping Left Coast Pinot Noir and eating ourselves into a stupor with the aid of an affable server who lavished attention on us, including crawling under the table to wedge folded paper to stop the table from doing the see-saw.

Talk about clever, an amuse bouche of especially decadent pimento cheese rested in an edible cracker spoon with swipes of spinach aoili and tomato fondue for dipping. "If we used edible spoons all the time, we'd never have to wash silverware again," Pru noted with delight.

I got to hear about one of Beau's Christmas presents to Pru, a laser-cut listing of all the rules of the house (hers, that is), all of which he's gradually learned over the course of the relationship, stipulations such as "don't bring up a topic unless you can go deep on it." True enough.

The most succinct: "Mix wit, sarcasm and profanity. Shake well." This is one of those house rules that follows us wherever we go, so it's actually more of a lifestyle rule, just as applicable in situations far from home.

Meanwhile, the menu had fresh appeal. Not going to lie, this frequent diner was terribly impressed to see changes and tweaks to the fish and seafood-heavy menu since we were last there in November.

Much like then, every dish succeeded splendidly tonight, not just in execution but in sheer over-the-top largesse, whether it was the killer South-meets-Asian pork sriracha collard green rolls (more, please!), a repeat from last visit of the completely obscene foie gras over spoonbread or tonight's special, bouillabaisse with an Old Bay broth.

I could have mainlined that broth, so of the Bay it tasted.

While originally billed as having John Dory along with shrimp, lobster and mussels, our server was mistaken, but since the kitchen made up for the missing Dory with a lobster tail and rockfish, no one was complaining, although even with Beau's help, I couldn't finish the bowl.

Now, the chocolate mousse tart, that I managed to polish off while the happy couple downed caffeine and our server belatedly showed up to advise us of the after-dinner offerings - Sauternes, Madeira, Port, Chartreuse, Fernet - which spawned a discussion about places to go after a film or play for drinks and discussion.

While they have some fine late night choices, Spoonbread only stays open till 10 during the week and 11 on weekends, which might not be late enough to really dig deep, depending on the subject matter. Nevertheless, we added them to our list of possibilities for the future

At the Byrd Theater for "The Philadelphia Story," I found us seats in my favorite row (no visible springs in the seat), immediately spotted two women passing a silver flask back and forth two rows back and heard my name called by a theater critic in the row right behind me.

Turns out his girlfriend had never seen "The Philadelphia Story" while her friend considers it her favorite movie. The minute Pru sat down, I introduced the two of them, since it's also her favorite film. Naturally, a film discussion group sprung up immediately, with Beau doing his best to listen in and grin.

In short order, we discussed the gender issues of "The Apartment," Jack Lemmon's limitations as a dramatic actor and why "High Society" should never have been made. My contribution was telling everyone about the upcoming Fascist mini-film fest at the Bijou, two can't miss weekends for film and democracy fans.

The course of true love...
Gathers no moss.

While Pru can recite the script along with Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant and James Stewart, it had been a couple of years since I'd seen the classic comedy of remarriage from 1940 with its non-stop wittily romantic script and the added bonus for me of a 32-year old James Stewart, lanky, full of attitude and, as usual, achingly sincere (no one says "doggone" like he does).

Whiskey is a slap on the back and champagne's heavy mist before my eyes.

Besides, I have to love a film showing a party where the band is still playing while people are still dancing and talking and it's 4 a.m. Can I go to parties like that, please?

You have unsuspected depth!

Knowing we'd want to end the evening on a conversational note, I'd made sure to have wine in the house and a fresh stack of newly-acquired records for the turntable in case we opted for here over a more public gathering spot.

We did and while the two of them prefer '70s (Roberta Flack, Art Garfuckel, CSNY) over '80s, I slid in both because the pithy dissection of male and female behavior, traditional gender roles versus expanded and Beau's passionate prosecution of marriage meant that half the time they were arguing their points, not paying attention to the music.

Except when Gladys Knight and the Pips came on, at which time Pru was visibly dancing in her chair.

Nearly three hours into our conversational soiree, Beau reminded us it was a school night for him and we wound down our closing topics, making up our minds about absolutely no one.

As is to be hoped, nothing had been brought up that hadn't been examined in great depth using wit, sarcasm and profanity. That's just how we do.

Oh, dear, is there no such thing as privacy anymore?
Only in bed, Mother, and not always there.

Lassoing the Moon

It's hard because Christmas Eve is a day with nearly as many expectations as Christmas itself.

Besides listening to the Border Brass' classic "Tijuana Christmas," which I most definitely did for the first time in decades, I had a non-stop day, although one of these things did not happen to me today:

I watched three episodes of the TV show "Friends"
I saw a marriage proposal unfold
I got chided about not having a cell phone
I opened a gift of jewelry
I walked to Rite-Aid in search of cocktail sauce
I listened to a new album with a lyric about "perversions of the heart" and mulled that over
I stood for the national anthem

In addition to the (totally not) traditional brown sugar and Dijon-coated ribs served with asparagus and fingerling sweet potatoes meal that preceded it, my Eve was occupied with seeing "It's  Wonderful Life" at the Byrd, a particularly notable event given that I'd been out of town and missed it last year.

As if the holiday gods had been looking out for me, though, I'd seen Bob Gulledge playing the mighty Wurlitzer organ for the annual holiday singalong already twice this month, so tonight's singalong - "If you do it right, I won't even be able to hear the organ," the nattily-dressed Bob told us - didn't have its usual novelty value.

Still, there's always something reassuringly familiar and appropriately holiday-like about hearing an organ on Christmas Eve.

Fortunately, the people behind us could carry a tune, even if they sounded like annoying eager beaver choir members singing at the top of their lungs doing it.

But it's not officially Christmas until the black and white bells of "It's a Wonderful Life" begin ringing onscreen to announce the movie that's become an integral part of my yearly celebration.

Who ever gets tired of hearing Jimmy Stewart say, "Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope!" when looking at a suitcase too small for his imaginary trips? Or watching his loose-limbed, long-legged gait as he tears through Bedford Falls appreciating every small-town nook and cranny in the place he once hoped to escape?

Not me.

All of that I'd counted on when I got to the Byrd, but completely unexpected was a screen reading, "Peggy, Will you marry me? Kevin" followed by a couple in the back hugging ecstatically (my guess is she said yes). The only thing missing was the Ray Conniff Singers doing "Christmas Bride."

So it was Peggy, not me, who opened a gift of jewelry today. May her perversions of the heart line up with Kevin's for eternity and a Christmas Eve.

Walking This Way All Day

Indulge me for a moment while I dream about this nearly perfect weather.

If there's a place that regularly has 80-degree days like today's as the norm for late October, can you please tell me where that magical place is? Days like this make me almost (but not quite) sorry that I slept until 11:00 because so little sunny time remains once I'm finally up.

After breakfast (okay, so it was 12:30), I walked to Carytown under an umbrella (once again fighting the stigma of parasol shame) to meet Pru, Beau and Burger for some classic Mel Brooks. I'd invited not one but two others, both of whom turned me down, only to learn at dinner last night that the trio had their own plans to attend.

Along the way, I pass a man on his front porch fluffing pillows. Asking why more people don't do the same, he answers, "I have no idea. They must not know how good a pillow smells after it's spent an afternoon outside."

This is a stranger who knows wise things. My pillows are immediately slated for a time-out on my balcony tomorrow.

My posse is waiting for me at the Byrd, Pru with assorted sizes of Tootsie Rolls in hand like the good friend that she is, to see "Young Frankenstein" and her first question once the lights go down and the title comes up is, "When's the last time you saw this movie?"

Answer: some time during the last millennium in a galaxy far, far away.

And though the film was made in 1974, period details make it seem older: a man's socks with garters, references to Tinker Toys and Ovaltine. College students actively engaged in class and not looking at their screens.

I'm nothing short of amazed at how many lines from this movie are not just part of standard pop culture references today, but are also family standards. When Igor tells Dr. Frankenstein, "Walk this way," I'm reminded of my Mom who uses this phrase before walking awkwardly nearly every time I visit.

For that matter, I have a sister who dredges up, "Two nasty-looking switches there but I'm not going to be the first," every time she sees a coupe of light switches next to each other. We all overuse, "Put ze candle back!" in my family to signify a bad choice and it's been 40 years.

"Taffeta, darling" was code for I'm all decked out, so don't mess with me (just ask any of the husbands in the family).

Favorite line: "Seven or eight quickies and then you're out with the boys to boast and brag. You better keep your mouth shut! Oh, I think I love him!"

Bottom line: "Young Frankenstein," despite just as much corny and '70s male humor as I recalled, holds up with some truly stellar performances, gorgeous black and white photography and the comedic script-writing chops of Brooks and Wilder.

That the screening was also a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society adds a layer of philanthropy to laughing with friends for two hours.

On the way home, I walk around a pizza delivery guy wearing a t-shirt, flannel pants and fuzzy slippers. I'm pretty sure he was delivering pies in his pjs in this glorious weather.

From an afternoon in Transylvania (where, I noted, all the townspeople had distinct British accents), it was on to an evening in Courtempierre, France (where vampires roam), two fitting nods to the season of slutty tacos (yes, a friend actually saw that costume).

Take it from someone who knows, the difference between the Silent Music Revival of 10 years ago and tonight's comes down to one thing: ear filler.

Where once a roll of toilet paper was torn, wadded and shared for earplugs, on the 10th anniversary, we had actual orange earplugs distributed to the capacity crowd.

Given my 9-year devotion to the SMR, I felt no shame in showing up way early and putting "reserved" cards on two chairs to hold places for tonight's 10th anniversary part one celebration.

Called out on it when we arrived, organizer Jameson laughed about it, confirming that he had no issue with me pulling rank to save seats (and not even comfortable seats, but those awful folding chairs at Gallery 5).

Long-time friendship has its privileges.

"Vampyr" from 1932 got a soundtrack courtesy of reunited noise-rock duo Navi, who managed to take an incredibly dark film and improvise to it magnificently, in part because Jameson had sped up the film by 21%, the better to marry it with the band's frenetic musical energy.

Sitting there for nearly an hour watching this classic horror film and its fabulous soundtrack, it was tough not to flash back to those early Silent Music Revivals with a fraction of the number of people and toilet paper in our ears to staunch the bleeding.

Like our grandparents having to walk uphill in a snowstorm five miles to get to school, some of us sat on hard store floors for nine years to make 2016's cushy-in-comparison SMR possible for those just now learning the pleasures of silent film set to local bands.

Feel free to thank me in person at part two of the 10th anniversary celebration come December.

Strolling from Gallery 5 afterward to Lucy's for a sandwich pop-up, we ran into two guy friends of mine just leaving and pumped them for recommendations. Inside, the place was nearly full-up with earnest-looking bearded types, a few more familiar faces and a smattering of Halloween costumes.

That's the beauty and/or problem with a Monday Halloween: the celebration starts Friday and rolls through for four consecutive nights, leaving broken glass on sidewalks and streets (at least here in J-Ward), shards of jack-o-lanterns everywhere and bits of costume (although I'm not entirely sure why I've also spotted two pairs of underwear) shed in the heat of the moment.

At some point, a person's bound to get tired of wearing a fake crown and toss it on the sidewalk, or so it would seem.

Tonight's sloppy sandwich pop-up provided the perfect late-night noshes - a manly Philly cheese steak and a more delicate but overloaded sensational seafood salad (and by that, I mean fake crab) sandwich dusted with flying fish roe inside a split hot dog roll - to accompany glasses of Rose and a dissection of the holes in the plot of "Vampyr."

After a stint at the bar watching the tail end of the World Series, we packed it in and headed out into the still-warm night, although the occasional rogue raindrop told us that a change of weather fronts was in the works. Sadly.

Mother Nature, put ze candle back!

Yippee-Ki-Yay, Comrade

Just another December day chock full of sewing, sunshine and silent movies in the heart of hipsterdom.

Still Life with Clementines and Pincushion

Driving to southside with the windows down, I'm listening to Juliana Hatfield singing "Everybody Loves Me But You" likes it's 1992 again.

Beauty and brains are all that I've got
I've got a cold, cold bed and a broken heart

South of the river I find a friend playing gardener while I set up camp sewing on her screened-in porch, somehow sure that Richmond women have a long history of sewing aprons on porches and that I'm merely the latest in a long line of needle-pushers doing so.

I bring along my Shaker pincushion and my friend immediately pegs it for an '80s purchase, which it was.

Because the right tool for the job is essential, I'm using a Kenmore sewing machine circa 1970, back when they were still made of metal and not plastic. It's remarkably similar to the '68 Singer my Washington, D.C. grandmother taught me to sew on, which I still have.

Despite J. Roddy Walston's admonishment, I do manage to break the needle, but replace it like the pro that my grandmother taught me to be.

I dip out as my friend begins preparing dinner from a new recipe for her homecoming warrior who's been off for a fortnight's hunting (deer) and gathering (tall tales probably), apron duty accomplished.

All the Young Middle-Aged Dudes

Hard labor behind me, I primp to go out, recalling a peculiar conversation I had with a favorite bassist the other night. Topic: big hair. That descriptor's been thrown my way plenty and the bassist cops to a full-on "Jew- boy 'fro" when his stylist-to-the-stars goes on vacation, meaning we both know the pain of a big 'do with nowhere to go and being crowded by clothing and scarves.

As men go, he's the exception who gets that. Hell, he mentioned it first.

The Byrd was filling up as I walked in to find lots of familiar faces to say hello to - Mike, Trent, Todd, Don, James, Nate, Josh - all suspiciously male. When I note as much to a former editor buying Non-Pareils ("They're really the movie standard," the concession girls pronounces) while I purchase popcorn, his response is, "Now you're here to balance us all out."

Not my job.

Of course a screening of Chaplin's "The Kid" with legendary guitarist Marc Ribot is going to attract every guitar geek over 30 who knows he's played with Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, et al. As for the visuals, I'd already seen the movie at the Silent Music Revival back in April 2013 with Wolf//Goat improvising a soundtrack.

A guy sitting alone in the row in front of me must have been a Byrd virgin because as I sat down, he was snapping photos of the large popcorn wedged between his thighs. Odd, I thought, but eventually, he turned his phone up to document the chandelier as well and I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

If I am to be honest here, the movie was a bit of a blur, not for any reason you might readily guess but because the entire day was. I only had one contact lens in. Getting lost in the musical score to a plot I already knew was as effortless as it was enjoyable as he nailed the moods of the story on his guitar.

Waling out afterwards, a guitarist friend summed it up. "That may be the best thing I experienced the entire year." And that's saying a lot considering how fab this town is these days. As a photographer and chicken owner neatly observed to me yesterday, "We sold out Dream Syndicate. In Richmond!" And it was amazing, as we both had seen.

So it was dark but not late when I left the Byrd. Movie Club was showing "Diehard" and I think we can all agree on what a Christmas Eve classic that is, but the timing didn't work with Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5, so I had to give up seeing Bruce Willis save mankind.

Vamp Him

It was worth it, though, because the SMR organizers had turned G5 into somebody's Christmas rec-room with a fake fire, Christmas lights strung along the stage and a live tree top decorated in a container. The neighbor's tree had been too tall, so when he sliced off the top, my friends had adopted it as their micro-Christmas tree.

Reuse and recycle, friends.

The grooviest of J-Ward neighbors were in the house with their friend, a petite woman who happens to be a stonemason and shared wildly immature things men have done to her on the job. As she put it, what grade are you in anyway?

Best random thing said to me by the guy to my right: "Never take acid and watch that film." Duly noted.

We were treated to a series of holiday shorts with Antiphons improvising along through drama (Scrooge-like rich neighbor and large, happy poor family), my second viewing of "The Insects' Christmas" (2011, also at SMR), a film I called a classic, garnering many laughs when organizer Jameson repeated it, and "The Snow Man" that starts sweet and goes south quickly as he becomes a snow monster who eats small animals and eventually gets a sword in the anus.

But my favorite would have to be "Soviet Toys," a Soviet propaganda film with a Christmas tree made of soldiers who hang various people so that the workers can rise to the top and presumably do egg nog shots in celebration.

The kind of film where you'll feel guilty for contributing to a capitalistic society by eating Non Pareils while a farm-wave sad rock band plays.

Chances are, the kind of film that could go either way on acid. Your call.

Cuckoo Clocks Aren't Swiss

Richmond, you did right by the cinema gods again.

Who knew there were enough people left in town over Labor Day weekend to fill up the Byrd Theater and far too many still to fit into New York Deli for the afterparty?

It didn't hurt that the Bijou crew - the folks on a mission to build a small arthouse theater here - had chosen a brilliant movie, "The Third Man," to lure people away from grills and backyard drinking for a good cause.

As my friends can attest, I'm notorious for not having seen enough classic films (partly because I don't watch films on TV), but I was far from the only one. An awful lot of hands shot up when the question was asked, "Who hasn't seen this film?" and from behind me, I hard a man react, "Wow!"

Obviously, I'm not the only one lacking in vintage film viewing.

My excitement about the screening had me inviting lots of friends to the event and then spotting even more at the theater, on the streets, in line. Clearly Bijou people are my people.

The evening began with friends Pru and Beau at Metzger for dinner, chosen for its non-proximity to the Byrd Theater. I understand the appeal of park once, party twice, I really do, but I'm also sage enough to anticipate every Carytown restaurant being mobbed as a result of that thinking.

Not for us the crowds. In fact, we were the first customers in Metzger, soon plowing through a bottle of Anton Bauer Rose (because Austrian wine before a movie set in Vienna, duh), a cheese and charcuterie board (let's have a moment of reverence for the orgasmic triple-cream Brillat Savarin), smoked tomato soup, pastrami smorrebrod (the horseradish quark a highlight), Arctic char and the heirloom tomato tart, all set to a soundtrack of my favorite vintage soul (the reliably fabulous Mr. Fine Wine).

But once in Carytown, the mellow vibe vanished and I soon heard my name called from a passing car. It was the scooter queen and her beloved in search of a bite before the Psychic TV show at Strange Matter. In fact, I knew several friends who'd chosen music over movie tonight.

That's a first world problem, choosing between a classic Brit film and an experimental Brit band. We've got it so tough in Richmond.

Once in the line to get in that snaked along Cary Street and around the corner down Colonial Avenue, the parade of friends began in earnest: the movie club mastermind, the theater critic, the conga player with his violinist wife, lots of WRIR volunteers, a favorite guitarist and doughnut lover, the former neighbor, the bass player, the A/V expert. All the cool kids.

Inside the theater, it was all energy and excitement as people found seats, spotted friends and settled in for a classic film. After raffle drawings (I didn't win), info from manager Todd about the Byrd's fancy new projector and an introduction about the film, we finally got to the beautifully restored version of "The Third Man."

From the opening frames - with the completely unique credit "Zither music by Anton Karas" - the film was a thing of beauty with atmospheric shots of post-war Vienna making it look like alternately the most romantic place on earth and the most seedy. Harsh lighting and dramatic shadows reigned supreme.

An unabashed fan, I've read plenty of Graham Greene's works -"Brighton Beach," "The Heart of the Matter," "The End of the Affair," "The Quiet American, "Travels with My Aunt" to name just a few - yet I'd never read this one, making it all the more appealing for not having a clue where the story was going.

The beauty of it was how well executed the script and performances were, sucking in the audience completely. No one plays the alcoholic American quite like Petersburg boy Joseph Cotten.

It's for exactly that reason that I love going to the movies and experiencing a film with strangers. The shared experience of watching a story unfold, getting to know and like (or abruptly dislike) characters, the moments of tension and surprise shared with others around me is, in my opinion, the whole point of watching a movie.

For that matter, tonight's screening perfectly demonstrated why the Bijou Film Center is precisely what Richmond needs. There are far too many of us who haven't seen important movies like "The Third Man" or for those who have, only on small screens at home. No, thank you.

That's not a movie experience and it's nothing like what director Carol Reed was striving to accomplish with this film.

It's about the shared experience of hearing someone behind me react, like when the cat snuggles up to a shadowed man's feet and the guy behind me whispers, "Oh, my god, it's Harry!" or when the affable Sergeant Paine is killed in the sewers and a woman nearby couldn't help exclaiming, "Oh, no, not him!"

Won't it be cool when the Bijou has a regular location where we can have these kind of shared film events week in and week out?

It's going to take all of us to make it happen and hopefully sooner rather than later. Given last night's sizable and enthusiastic crowd, I don't see any reason to think it won't.

In the meantime, it was a hell of an offering to the cinema gods.

Everyone's an Actor or Musician

From the wine bar, I got girl talk from a good friend. From the movie, I got laughs and Richmond scenery. From the music, I got a familiar voice and two bands new to me.

With the exception of meeting the man of my dreams, I think I got everything I could need tonight.

For a change, I sat on the couch at Secco rather than at the bar, providing an even closer view of the Hopper-esque view of the interior of The Eatery across the street.

We also had a great view of people coming around the corner, including a man in patchwork pants that were truly something, we just weren't sure what (my friend: "I'm rethinking taking up quilting after seeing those").

I also enjoyed my first Lebanese wine, the 2008 Chateau Muser "Jeune Rouge," a blend of Cinsault, Syrah and Cab. It was velvety smooth and full of spices, making me wonder why I'm such a latecomer to Lebanese wines (perhaps it's an availability issue and, if so, thank you, Julia).

My friend had loads of relationship talk she needed to get off her chest while I had only a few minor stories to share (or minor stories about major events).

We did both over a selection of new cheeses, including the Westfield Farm White Buck (soft, flaky, bloomy rind with just a whisper of bleu), the P'tit Basque (smooth, nutty) and the Romero (firm, vibrant, rosemary-infused).

The last was a raw milk cheese and easily my favorite of the three; I don't need no stinkin' homogenization.

We had planned to move from there to the Byrd, but Friend had to bow out, so I went for an evening of independent film alone. Showing was Antihero, a collaboration of VCU theater students and graduates made last summer on a shoestring.

And, of course, using RVA as a location guaranteed me several things. I'd recognize locations (the fight on Monument Avenue, for instance) and there would be bikes and PBR.

Beyond that, I've seen one of the lead actors, Joe Carlson, chew scenery in any number of theatrical performances over the years. Even wine god Bob Talcott had a role as a mean drug kingpin, although he looked very dapper in his seersucker suit.

The movie told the story of two RVA guys partying and breaking into houses once they discover that one of them has psychic powers. Despite their less-than-lawful start, they wind up doing all sorts of good deeds (reviving an overdosed girl, preventing a rape) along the way.

The dialog alternated between bro-speak (everyone called everyone "dude") and under-the-breath witty ("Why do they call it a grilled cheese when it's fried?").

The good-sized audience cheered, laughed along and generally showed support for the offbeat comedy and its local crew. I have no doubt but that many PBRs were raised in celebration shortly after the screening ended.

With the movie over by 9:00, it only made sense to stop by the Camel on my way home. Tuesdays they always host a couple of jazz bands and there's no cover, making for a tempting way to finish out the evening.

This week it was the Lucas Fritz Quintet followed by Old Soul, two bands about which I knew nothing. That was corrected pretty quickly after I arrived when musician Lydia Ooghe came over to say hello. Only then did she tell me that Old Soul is her "side project."

LFQ got things rolling with some original material; I especially like "Ultra Hang" and "The O." I got a kick out of Fritz introducing the song "Just In Time" as "from the Old American songbook."
I think he meant the Great American songbook, but technically he's right; they are old songs It just sounded funny coming from someone of his tender years.

In addition to Lydia on vocals, Old Soul also had Marcus and David from No BS Brass Band and Matt, the drummer I had befriended at the Zakir Hussain show at the Folk Fest last fall.

So I didn't know the band by name, but I was familiar with four of the seven members, which actually isn't all that surprising. It's a fact; Richmond's music community is as incestuous as its restaurant community. When it comes to music, I'm not sure that's a bad thing, though.

Old Soul had a very full sound with both alto and tenor sax and fabulous keyboards, not to mention a vocalist on many of the songs.

A highlight was the two-part piece, "Sleeps Vary" and "Morning Doubts," as was the last piece, written by Matt and featuring drumming that had the entire crowd quiet and enthralled, which unfortunately had not been the case throughout the entire evening.

It was a terrific way to finish things up. Like I said, except for the obvious, I got everything I could have wanted this evening.

Tallying Up the Day So Far

Number of classic lines I got on my walk today: 2
("Hey, girl, you looking for a man to take care of you?" from a guy sitting on his group house stoop. Later, caught behind another walker, I pass him and from behind hear "You're making me look bad." "I'm good at this," I turn around and say reassuringly. "I walk every day."
"You're still making me look bad," he says, smiling but not speeding up any.)

Number of unexpected friends who showed up while I was eating lunch at the Belvidere: 2
(One of whom I hadn't seen in months and who was not only looking terrific, but actually said the words, "I'm happy." You have to understand, this is a guy who would rather dwell on the negative than the positive just to be contrary, no matter how well things are going. He had the Eggs Belvidere while I ate a Caesar with grilled salmon; it was downright pleasant, not always the case with our shared meals in the past. And then another friend showed up to get a companion for Saturday Stroll and remind me that his birthday is tomorrow, in case I'd forgotten.)

Number of sidewalk chalk artists I saw on my way to the Byrd Theater: 7
(One girl, whose chalk art was labeled VMFA, was actually copying a 19th century Impressionist masterpiece and doing a magnificent job of translating oil on canvas to chalk on sidewalk.)

Number of phalluses in the locally-made film The Taint: Hundreds
(I'd heard about the film at Project Resolution where the director described it as a film about "a tainted river that makes all the men become misogynists and bash in women's heads. It's a comedy." Was it ever! The nearly full audience laughed almost the whole way through at vomiting, internal organs being ripped out, defecation, ejaculation and so much more. You kind of had to be there. Mimicking the age-old litter promo that the Byrd plays, there were several times when a character said, "Sick!" with just the right inflection to be an inside joke for regular Byrd attendees.)

Number of brilliant one-liners directed at me: 1
(Settled into my painful seat at the Byrd, local comic and ukulele player extraordinaire Herschel walked by and I said hello for the third time in three days; he'd been at the show at Alley Katz Thursday, at Gallery 5 last night, and here we were at the same place again. "My god," he exclaimed. "We're soulmates!"

But we all know there's no such things as soulmates. Right?