For Once in Your Life

You learn better when your belly's full.

Since I had plans to attend honors film class, I made plans to meet up first with a fellow film lover at Cafe 821, where it turned out to be "breakfast all day" Tuesday with discounted mimosas.

Fittingly, since when I go to 821 for breakfast I always order black bean nachos, I did the same tonight.

Only hitch? I requested a half order and was told there's no such thing.What, I dreamt it?

The strange thing about that is that I'd ordered those nachos for five years before the day a server asked me if I'd prefer a half order since I was never able to finish a whole.

Why, yes, a half order would be ideal, I'd told her, surprised that no one had ever told me it was a possibility to do so.

Tonight I was informed that it's not a possibility, just something that particular server does. Fortunately, my companion was willing to nibble off my plate in a vain attempt to help me do justice to the mega plate of food in front of me.

I still sent back as much as I ate, thereby proving I should be allowed to get a half order.

My fellow film lover took off to pick up his date while I strolled over to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque's screening of "Dr. Strangelove: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb."

It was my first Cinematheque of the fall season and instead of just the usual blase film students, tonight also included an honors class so nearly every seat was taken with earnest artistic types.

Dr. Rob began by listing out the staples of any Stanley Kubrick film: creative cinematography, use of ironic, contrasting music, a melding of genres, realism and innovative visual effects.

"You're really fortunate to get to see a 35mm print of this," he said of the 50-year old classic. "This is probably the only time in your life you'll see this."

Since I've never seen it before, it seemed only right to get to see it the proper way my first time.

Although I'm not big into war movies, I am a huge fan of satire, period details and '60s movies, so except for the absent girl parts, it turned out to be very much my kind of movie.

There was one female character in the entire film and she wore a bikini and high heels while laying on the bed reading under a sunlamp, waiting for her man to come out of the bathroom.

You see, kids, this was back before we knew that tanning was bad for us.

Since it was 1964, she had a soft, curvy body, so unlike the hard body norm of today. It was lovely.

When we see the soldiers aboard the top secret B-52 Bomber, they're reading a Playboy magazine, with the centerfold sporting a newspaper over her bottom.

You know, for decorum.

When they have to go inside the B-52's safe to get the bombing instructions, more nudie picks are taped to the inside of the safe door.

Ah, for the good old days when men had to cut and paste their porn and not just click a mouse.

Because it was a college-aged crowd, there were the usual tittering at that which with they weren't familiar, such as when one of the three Peter Sellers characters had to use a pay phone and insert coins.

OMG, pay phonz, LOL!!

Spare me.

Watching Sellers play three such different characters - the President, the RAF officer and the demented German Dr. Strangelove- was like watching a master class in comedy.

Sometimes you could even spot another actor cracking up in the background.

But honestly, it was just as fascinating to watch a young-looking George C. Scott go absolutely bananas in his scenes, as only a younger man can do.

Clearly most of my memories of his film roles were older roles when he was more staid.

After the film, half the room cleared out and the remaining film devotees discussed it.

I was thrilled when Dr. Rob asked who'd seen the movie before and pointed out that seeing it on a small screen - TV, computer or god forbid, phone- made it come across more rational whereas seeing it on the big screen made it more visceral, the way Kubrick had intended it to be.

Pshaw. Like he had to tell me that.

Discussing Kubrick's influence on subsequent directors, he appealed to the students. "What big film of your youth had a similar plane interior and flying shots?"

It took two guesses before someone came up with the obvious: "Star Wars." Even I knew that and I haven't seen "Star Wars" since it opened in 1977.

Please note, I did see it, though.

After more discussion of how much of Sellers' dialog was improvised (a lot), how Kubrick would do up to 50 takes on a scene and about the importance of editing for impact, he dismissed class.

Walking out, I saw a friend and we stood outside discussing the film on the sidewalk.

He'd been taken with the race issues raised in the film and I'd been struck by the feminist issues.

You see, at the end, Dr. Strangelove proposes a plan for post-nuclear survival where people live underground breeding to replace all those killed.

To do this, he says, there must be a ratio of ten highly stimulating women for every man.

George C. Scott's general character immediately sees the benefit of this, asking if this means that men would have to give up monogamy. That old male fantasy.

Naturally, all the men now see this as a fabulous idea. Culturally speaking, it's obvious there's been no consciousness raising prior to this film.

After ten minutes of film dissection, he suggested a drink and we headed to the Village Cafe for hot tea with honey (him) and a chocolate shake for me.

You know, the good, old Village, where you can count on some rummy at the bar reaching for his backpack, only to have a half-full 40-ounce roll out of it, clanking on the floor on the way down.

And nobody bats an eye.

A fine place to wile away a couple of hours talking about Hillary's chances, lowering the drinking age, good websites for music shows and historic preservation of the heart of Grace Street corridor.

It's interesting, when you're having your first in-depth conversation with someone you've only known casually socially, you have no idea when you might cross a conversational line or offend with your opinion.

We even trash-talked Smart phones and people who don't like going to movie theaters.

He posited a theory that the older you get, the more comfortable you get striking up conversations with strangers and expressing your opinion to new people.

Hell, by that measure, I was born old.

Tuesday Evening or: How I Never Started Worrying and Love the Conversation. Anywhere, anytime.

Steady Slurp

It's so easy to justify a milkshake when it's 101 degrees outside.

So when I got asked to lunch, my  thoughts went immediately to the nearest source for a long, tall glass of ice cream and that would be The Village.

The place was packed and since I'm not a Village regular, I don't know if that's typical for a Saturday or a result of overheated people (like me) trying to escape the heat.

We took the two-top by the ladies room and got a witty server in return.

My chocolate shake got ordered first and when she brought it, I asked for a second straw so my companion and I could share.

Pushing it into the frozen contents of the glass, she announced, "Now you're going steady!"

What? No steady ring, no puka shell necklace, no nothing? Clearly going steady doesn't mean what it used to.

She insisted we order onion rings with our BLT and Reuben because the Food Network had raved about them in years gone by.

Back then they'd noted that the batter used PBR and Richbrau, but obviously there have been some modifications since Richbrau went under.

That said, they were better than average onion rings and neither of us was able to finish them.

While slugging the shake and eating the rings, we were visited by one of my walking regulars, totally out of context there.

He wiggled his eyebrows and made a face behind my lunch companion's back, apparently not used to seeing me in a social situation.

Looking at my mondo BLT and onion rings, he noted, "I'd like to see how all that food is going to fit in your little body."

He should have come back fifteen minutes later.

After gorging ourselves (because let's face it, having a milkshake with a meal is like having dessert throughout), we went to my favorite neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, who'd bragged on Facebook that their store was a cool 73 degrees.

Count me in.

Today was the first in a four-date series called "Summer Sounds at Steady" and featured two performers for our afternoon's pleasure.

Producer/DJ Ohbliv (he of the very smooth mustache) got things started, twisting nobs and calling forth samples, all the while smiling and dancing in place.

After a while, White Laces' guitarist Alex French's solo project, Flossed in Paradise, took over, layering sounds from guitars, drum machines and synthesizers with his effects-laden voice for a sound I instantly fell in love with.

As recently as last night, I had described a favorite sound of mine as reverb-laden with unintelligible lyrics, affectionately known to those who know my taste as "music from a cave."

And ta-da! Here i was getting exactly that in post-punk style four feet from my sweaty, smiling face.

For the next hour and a half, the two traded off the spotlight, (mostly) seamlessly segueing from one set of long, musical-looking fingers to the other.

If there was a better way to spend a hot Saturday afternoon than with a milkshake and Flossed in Paradise, I couldn't tell you what it was.

And two straws do not mean you're going steady.

What is this, the malt shop era?

I'll Wait, Not Call

When someone gives me a hard time about not having a cell phone, I have plenty of justification for why I won't become one of the mobile masses. But one of the primary reasons is as simple as what cell phone culture has done to people's attention spans.

I can't always think of an example of this when I'm trying to justify myself to the cell-dedicated, but I heard a perfect example on my walk today. Heading toward the Village on Grace Street, a guy was looking left and right. Finally, he called someone and asked the dumbest question I've heard in a while, "Are you here?"

Apparently the callee confirmed what the caller had already known; he wasn't there yet. "Okay, then I'll go back inside and get a table," caller boy said.

Remember back in the olden days when you were meeting a friend at a restaurant and they weren't there when you arrived? You had a choice to make; you could get a table and wait for them or stand out front and wait for them.

But the issue wasn't so pressing or perplexing that you needed to know immediately in order to decide your course of action. Whether you stood or sat, your friend was likely going to find you once they arrived. And if they never showed, you ate lunch by yourself. But life went on.

Mine still does, but clearly I'm in the minority. Maybe that's my objection to cell phones: they negate the need for patience. And isn't patience worth preserving?

Patience is a virtue.
Possess it if you can.
Seldom found in woman.
Never found in man.

I beg to differ.

Sunday on Grace Street

A single gold shoe in front of the dance club Xscape surrounded by debris from last night's carousing.

Wasn't it kind of chilly last night not to notice one foot hitting bare pavement?

Further on, in front of the VCU Library annex, three guys smile and say good morning.

One says, "You're out here walking again," and as I pass by him, I remind him I walk every day.

From behind, I hear, "And it's working for you, baby! It surely ee-is. Mmm, mmm."

Up ahead at the Lutheran church on the corner, the congregants are out in front clutching palm fronds and listening to the grand poohbah read.

One girl is visibly shivering in a sleeveless dress, her hair still wet from the shower and bare-legged with just sandals on.

A guy in a suit at the back gives me a mischievous grin and points at himself, points at me and then points down Grace Street in the direction I'm walking.

Is he suggesting he'll abandon god and the flock and take off with a stranger? I don't even want to know.

I see a "For Sale" sign where the agent's name, George Cummings, had been altered by some juvenile-minded wit bracketing off [CUM].

I'm going to go with my gut here and guess the perp was a male not yet old enough to drink. And probably not getting laid, either.

Coming back toward the Ward on Grace, a guy gets out of his car carrying a Sunday paper and striding purposely toward the Village.

Clearly he is bent on breakfast and paper-reading. As we reach the restaurant, we both see the big cardboard sign over their specials board that says "NO POWER. Sorry for the inconvenience"

The guy looks at me and I say, "That'll stop you in your tracks. Now what?"

Before he can answer me, another guy lounging against the Village's window looks up and nonchalantly says, "They still got beer."

 It is 10:15.

On Grace Street, you see, breakfast is in the eye of the beholder.

If Ever There Was Someone

My tall friend Thomas and I finally started spending time together the last six months, after years of not. Back in his bartending days, I was able to worship at his altar bar twice a week and made a point to do so. I was rewarded with smart conversation and killer wit, not to mention the occasional backhanded compliment or dig; I thoroughly enjoyed his company (and book discussions). Actually it was devotion to the pleasure of his company that led me to meeting someone I eventually became daft about but whom he tried to warn me against. Then life and circumstance (not of either of our own doing, btw) intervened and we only occasionally ran into each other.

Happily, that's all been corrected since February and we meet regularly now for lunch at the most varied of eating establishments (821, Mojo's, Bistro 27, The Village...are you getting the idea?), usually to eat fattening, fried or greasy foodstuffs. Today's destination of choice was Cafe Gutenburg (PBRs, Leo Hillinger Welschriesling and platter o' fries) and I'm just now home.

We always have plenty to talk about cause we know lots of the same people and yet hear different gossip. Even better, he's shared some of our conversations with his smart wife, so I get the added benefit of her take on the people and happenings we discuss. Naturally, there's also the topic of music. At the moment, I'm very much looking forward to a mix CD he's making me featuring some of his current favorites. Friends who give me music are the best.

When we finish our marathon lunches (luckily we both have flexible schedules), we amuse ourselves. We got to Carytown to shop for vintage clothes. Thomas takes pictures of my legs. He drives me home so we can discuss jam-making.

As usual, today's pithy discussion and analysis reminded me again why I have had a friend crush on him since 2002. Shh, don't tell.