Nothing Lasts Forever

When they go low, we go high.

When our embarrassment of a leader using the first day of Black History Month to air grievances and mouth off about himself in lieu of thoughtful commentary about our country's racial history, or even current race relations starts the day, it's impossible not to cringe.

What kind of an egomaniacal twit begins a Black History Month speech with, "Well, the election it came out really well," and goes on to boast about future wins? And saying that abolitionist Frederick Douglass "did an amazing job" only confirms that he has no clue who the man was, much less what he did.

All a person can do is try to carry on with the best intentions.

So first that meant walking over to the Black History Museum for a preview of the new exhibit, "Murry DePillars: Double Vision," a retrospective of the work of a black man dedicated to both his art and education as Dean of VCU's School of the Arts for nearly 20 years.

Covering 43 years of work, I was immediately drawn to firebrand pieces such as 1968's "Aunt Jemima," showing the stereotypical figure in apron and headscarf bare-breasted and bursting out of the box of pancake mix, a spatula in her black-gloved hand. Responding to the events of the day, the background of the piece shows stars, but a closer look reveals that they're the stars on Chicago Police badges, referencing the raid on Black Panther headquarters there that year.

Or "Uncle Remus," with the titular subject emerging Samson-like from the book that bears his name, while the landscape of American culture - history textbooks, Native Americans - lies in ruins at his feet. Meanwhile, Brer Rabbit raises his gloved fist in solidarity.

Amazing, yes, but also not the kind of art you can look at and soon forget. And most definitely not the kind of art that would speak to the new administration.

Lunch involved meeting an old friend in a two-seater booth at Can Can for massive salads and even more enormous chocolate crepes filled with Nutella and Amaretto mousse while talking about the revisions he's just finished on his books and how the book covers now need to be updated as well.

Seems it's all about whatever sells.

Our most interesting conversation centered around relationships, which is interesting because in the 25 years we've been friends, I've never known him to be in one. Nevertheless, being a guy, he's an expert.

When he brought the subject up, it was with a plan (because he writes books about the best way to do things, so he's always thinking in terms of results) for how to ascertain compatibility after meeting a potential soulmate.

His plan? Once seriously attracted to someone, both parties need to write down three things they either must have or can't abide in a relationship and then swap lists to see whether they're issues the other is willing to compromise on.

His list? No high maintenance (he doesn't want to have to call someone every day), no jealous types (non-negotiable) and must be into eating somewhat healthily (this is clearly subjective since I know he doesn't eat breakfast and you know what they say about the most important meal of the day).

We bantered this subject around for so long that we began playing the what-if game. What if she's willing to take a text or email instead of a call, could he stand doing that daily? What if meeting a friend for lunch results in her giving him the silent treatment?

Compromise is all about concessions.

He's been telling me for ages that he wants to try walking with me - for so long it feels like a running gag - so once out on the sidewalk, he tells me to demonstrate the speed at which I typically walk so he can gauge whether or not he's ready to try.

Despite being in platform boots, I set off at my usual four miles per hour.

"Wow, that is kind of fast, but I'm willing to give it a shot," he tells me, although he's also a weather wimp, so I'll have to pick a temperate day. I also promise to give him a day's notice, but he wants at least two.

I'm starting to think it'll be a miracle if this outing ever takes place.

Back at my desk and busy at work, I am more than a tad surprised when an unexpected job offer comes in - not a writing job, but an editing job in one of my favorite places. It gives me pause, but I'd have to move. Am I up for that?

In the immortal words of Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Continuing the day's theme, I head to Cabell Library for a lecture entitled, "Is Shakespeare Beyond Race?" with GWU professor Ayanna Thompson talking about the history of race in Shakespeare and the state of diversity in it today.

The room is a diverse mix of students and the public, a fine showing for the first day of Black History Month and even a bit of a rebuke to the verbal diarrhea of our clueless leader.

Seems that 19th century black actors would don "whiteface" to perform roles such as Shylock, Macbeth and King Lear so that audiences wouldn't have to deal with seeing a black character in a classical play.

Some of the best photos and facts concerned the Federal Theater Project, part of FDR's Works Progress Administration, and its groundbreaking 1936 production of an all-black "Macbeth."

Man, how radical that must have seemed even during that socially radical time.

Thompson spoke at length about casting choices and how despite theater companies professing to use more diverse casts, the facts show a different story. Artistic directors are still afraid of alienating well-off, old, white theater audiences with too much diversity in casting.

"It's not necessary to cater to old white audiences anymore because they're not going to last forever," she said. She sited Oregon Shakespeare as an example because although their casting is about 50% people of color and 50% white, their audiences are 99% white.

What's wrong with this picture?

It was funny during the Q & A, every single person who was handed the mic began by thanking her for speaking today. "You guys are so southern polite!" she said sounding surprised.

You want southern polite, go to the Byrd Theater with a musician friend to see "To Kill a Mockingbird" like I did tonight, and you'll be taken back to the days of yes, ma'ams and yes, sirs and children who know they are supposed to speak to every adult they see in a respectful manner.

But besides polite, you'll also get a reminder of just how all-encompassing white privilege was in 1932 when the film was set, with liberal use of the n-word, a white mob looking for vigilante justice and a prosecutor's sheer incredulity that a black man could possibly feel sorry for a white woman.

You want to talk amazing, let's talk how relevant so much of the film's message still is.

Or, if you're my droll friend, you come out wondering if Jem really rolls Scout in that tire toward Boo Radley's house or if they used a stunt double, sketching out possible scenarios for my amusement. So much for deep cultural insight.

On the other hand, every day that begins with another presidential fiasco should end with this much laughter.

Nerds R Us

You think you know someone and then they show up in a bright yellow Scout to fetch you.

On the other hand, the literary reference on his license plate was so incredibly well-conceived that I felt reassured that he hadn't changed all that much.

It had been ages since we'd seen each other and he had all kinds of new milestones (another degree, turning 40) behind him since we'd last lunched.

I suggested C Street in Carytown since I'd only been in for drinks and he agreed, saying that he knew one of the sous chefs.

Walking by Guitar Works, we saw musicians of various ages playing loudly on the porch while passersby lingered to listen.

Band camp, perhaps?

At C Street, an enormous bridal luncheon of women in flowered dresses was in progress, making us happy for a table down the hall.

"Will you think me a Troglodyte if I order a burger?" he asked.

In fact, I'd expected it. Even at 40, his favorite foods are still burgers and pizza.

And while I love both, he's got six feet and three inches to spread out that kind of eating and I've got less than five and a half feet.

So I chose the shrimp salad spinach wrap which, will not exactly overflowing with shrimp salad, benefited from the marinated cherry tomatoes and dill in it.

He'd recently been going through the hoop jumping of the job interview process, including one with several local steps followed by the company flying him to NYC.

There they said that he didn't have enough experience, a conclusion he said could have been easily reached during any number of conversations here.

Ah, the challenges of seeking work. I remember its frustrations well, here.

In fact, it was part of the reason I finally gave up and opted to work for myself despite the poverty level wages of it.

So I'll never drive anything as cool as a bright yellow '75 Scout with a ragtop, metal framed windows and a shiny silver glovebox.

But even the economically-challenged can appreciate a good literary reference when they see one, albeit on a license plate.

J.L. Finch? On a Scout? Frickin' brilliant.

It takes a certain kind of nerdy mind to think up stuff like that.

Even better, he ordered the sesame soy slaw for its alliteration.

Truly my kind of friend.

The Corner of What?

It was a multi-cultural evening beginning in the deep south, stopping briefly in China and and settling into 70s-era Italy for the duration.

To kick off VCU's Southern Film Festival this weekend, author Charles Shields was giving a talk ("Let's keep this more of a conversation," he said right off the bat) about his book "Mockingbird: An Intimate Portrait of Harper Lee" at Fountain Books.

Audience members shared their first memory of reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" and they varied widely; some people fell in love with Scout's character while others saw Atticus as the memorable one.

I only first read the book ten years ago and I remember being struck by how very Southern small-town it was, probably because it depicted a world so different from the one in which I was raised.

Shields got some fascinating input for his book, especially about the interpretation of the Scout character.

Harper Lee described Scout, who was based on her own childhood persona, as "Too hard for the girls" and the Truman Capote character of Dill as, "Too soft for the boys," making them both misfits and kindred spirits.

A lesbian fan of the book told Shields that, "Scout is enough to make any girl-loving girl's heart go pitter-patter." That is high praise indeed.

Shields is speaking again Saturday before the screening of "To Kill a Mockingbird" at Grace Street Theater, but I knew it couldn't possibly be as intimate as a Fountain Books talk. There's something about sitting in evangelical church folding wooden chairs to hear about Southern literature that just feels right.

Walking up Cary Street in the rain afterwards, I peeked out from under my red umbrella when I heard the unmistakable sound of accordion playing in front of Bistro Bobette; it was the guy I'd met there recently who plays in the restaurant on occasion singing and playing his heart out.

It was delightful seeing and hearing him on the sidewalk and under a streetlight on a rainy, reflective evening. Don't tell me Richmond has no charm.

I ducked into Peking for some take-out (hot and sour soup, Hunan pork) to bring home and devour while I knocked out a writing assignment before going out again.

My fortune cookie laid it out for me: Love is just around the corner.

Dinner demolished, story submitted, I made my way to Balliceaux for the Mondo Italia dance party with Glows in the Dark. This free jazz group is a long-time favorite of mine, but tonight they were doing something they'd never done before: not improvising.

Like the last time they did something similar, here, there was an Italian film showing behind them, this time 1977's "The Big Racket." But this time, guitarist Scott Burton had actually arranged all this 70s Italian movie music, so there was no noodling.

His musical choices were inspired and the group well-rehearsed. Trombonist Reggie pace also played wah-wah guitar and percussion, Cameron Ralston was on electric bass, John Lily on sax and Scott Clark on drums.

We were even treated to Eddie Prendergast of Amazing Ghost doing lead vocal on one very disco-sounding song and he was a show stopper with his smooth delivery and near-dance moves. The crowd went crazy, but so did the band. It was a highpoint in an evening of stellar moments.

The idea behind not improvising had been to keep the music going for the sake of dancing, but it took a while for people to get started actually dancing and then it was just a few people.

It was a shame because the music was so danceable, so very 70s groovy with big old bass lines that made you move almost involuntarily. Nobody does movie music better than Glows in the Dark.

I had a great vantage point from the settee by the bar and my musician friend Marshall, who'd been with me last night, joined me there again tonight. At one point, trumpeter and funnyman Bob Miller came over to say hello to us.

"Have you guys moved since last night?" he asked, half in jest. Well, we're wearing different clothes so we must have, we told him.

Hell, I'd been through Alabama and China before he found me back on that settee enjoying 70s grooves Italian-style while gunfights and bad moustaches played out on the wall.

There could not have been a more amazing experience going on in RVA tonight. If I wasn't going to turn the corner and find love, Balliceaux was the place to be.

Too Cool a Mockingbird

Like generations of Southerners in the summertime before me, I went to the movies today for "air conditioned comfort" and because the theater would be "cooled by refrigeration" like the banners outside theatres used to promise.

And don't you just know I had to pick a suitably hot and Southern film to see, namely To Kill A Mockingbird, set in un air-conditioned Alabama in the 1930s.

Let the fanning begin.

Not only had I never seen TKAM on the big screen, I'd never seen it at all. I've read the book at least three times that I can recall and read plenty about the film's cultural significance, but that was about it. Movieland was showing it for their Movies and Mimosa feature and I honestly was looking for a couple of hours of cool air.

To my great delight, the details of life in the South in the summer were all there.

Open windows with barely moving curtains. Men with wet underarm stains on their shirts. Foreheads glistening in close quarters. Wrinkled cotton and linen suits and jackets. Men fanning themselves with their hats while women in hats used fans.

A block of ice in front of the courthouse, chips of which were to be used inside for cooling purposes. I know I'm in the minority on this, but I accept being a sweaty mess because I chose to live in the South and summers here are hot.

My windows are open 24/7 and the curtains are often still.

When I get back from my morning walks, my t-shirt has more than just underarm wetness. My forehead glistens under my bangs and my normally straight hair curls where it meets my moist neck.
I tend to wear cotton knit dresses so as to not show the inevitable wrinkling that comes with heat and woven fabrics.

And I even have an Art 180 paddle fan I keep nearby (I once took it to an outdoor wedding and got envious stares from other dripping guests).

But the block of ice I hadn't thought of. Maybe that'll be my next summer coping mechanism. Surely the original occupants of my 1876 house made do during a hot spell and the women back then wore a lot more clothing than I do.

One habit we probably have in common is an afternoon nap in our undies, stretched out under the ceiling fan with the shades drawn.

I may even try employing a chip or two of ice this afternoon...you know, in the best Southern tradition.