You're Hopeful or You're the Problem

Mainly I went to the Siegel Center because hope is power.

Tonight, as part of VCU's Common Book program, "Just Mercy" author Bryan Stevenson of the Equal Justice Initiative was in the house talking about increasing justice in our country. Mac and I walked over to join the hundreds of others who wanted to hear this lawyer who works with death row inmates talk about how we can possibly hope to create a post-race world.

This is a man who has made his life's work beating the drum of justice.

Along with scores of students, some busier looking at their phones and laptops than paying attention to Stevenson, there were plenty of adults like us interested in hearing from this man who's dedicated his life to working with marginalized populations.

The middle-aged woman sitting next to me could barely contain her excitement at hearing him speak. "He's like a rock star, a real rock star to me!" she gushed. I only wish the students - whom he characterized as "more woke" than our generation, although I have my doubts - who began drifting out midway through his talk had realized that.

Mac and I had picked up his book when we'd seen the film "Thirteenth" about that amendment and the subsequent institutionalization of mass incarceration - which included Stevenson as one of the savviest talking heads - and decided then that we needed to hear this man speak.

A big part of his appeal is that he's not all doom and gloom despite a vast knowledge of all the disturbing history that would justify such a stance so rather than focus on that history, he instead offered solutions the country and especially young people could use going forward.

He talked about the power of proximity and how necessary it is for white people to position themselves near communities and people in crisis. With passion he explained the need for changing narratives that sustain oppression, things like the existing narratives of death row, of childhood, of race.

Referring to the U.S. as a post-genocide society, he showed how our forefathers denigrated those they wanted to control, calling Native Americans "savages" (while keeping Indian names for rivers and settlements) and using the misplaced notion of white supremacy to justify slavery.

Pointing out that our culture has gotten "too celebratory about the Civil Rights movement," he spoke truth to power to the audience. "You shouldn't live in Richmond and not know where the slave auction sites were." I admit, I only know a couple, but I intend to change that.

Stay hopeful, he told us, because you can't change the world if you lose hope. Pessimists and pragmatists, take note. It's particularly important in a world where trucks still proudly wave the Confederate flag and it's still possible to see a bumper sticker - as Stevenson did - that reads, "If I'd known it was going to turn out like this, I'd have picked my own cotton."

His final advice was to be willing to do uncomfortable or inconvenient things, which is just another way of saying, "Lean in when it gets uncomfortable," advice far too many white people are unwilling to take because, as a species, we are instinctively attracted to what's comfortable and easy.

Race relations are neither.

After the Q & A, we picked up the Equal Justice Initiative's 2017 calendar, as much for its iconic photographs (both vintage and modern) as for its 365 days of racial injustice history dates, every single one of which is positively heartbreaking.

On my birthday, for example, in 1796, President George Washington offered a $10 reward for the return of Oney Judge, an enslaved black woman who fled after learning that Martha planned to give her away as a wedding present.

That's right, a First Lady using human beings as gifts. Lest people think that things got better with time, how about June 16, 1944 when a 90-pound 14-year old black boy is wrongly accused of rape and murder and electrocuted in South Carolina, becoming the youngest person executed in the 20th century? Our country's history is strewn with such mortifying facts.

Calendars in arms, we walked over to 821 Cafe, to discuss what we'd heard and share an order of black bean nachos. When our affable server spotted our calendars with their haunting black and white photographs, he wanted to know where we'd been and from whence the calendars had come, afterward acknowledging that he had some important reading and film-watching to do.

When he came back to clear the table and found the platter all but licked clean, he was suitably impressed. "Not too many people can finish the whole thing," he said with awe. Hell, Mac and her main squeeze had tried recently and hadn't been able to. "Good job!"

Technically, the "good job" accolades go to VCU for assigning a compelling common book and bringing the rock star author to Richmond to share his vision of a better future with Mac, me and the masses.

With racial inequity as with most other things, the two of us have no intention of being part of the problem.

Put Me in Your Feed, Darlin'

Setting out to focus solely on booze and Jews meant winding up hearing about condoms in a vintage bowl by the bed.

Walking into Cabell Library for the "Jews and Booze: America in the Age of Prohibition" lecture, the only woman friend I know capable of singing opera - and now with two little ones under 5 - exhorted me, "Keep on writing! It's the only way I know what goes on in Richmond anymore. You're in my feed!"

I swore to do my best.

Naturally, I'd expected the talk to have its share of students and it did - including the guy next to me who claimed he was there solely because "that period of American history fascinates me," bless his heart - but there was also a large adult Jewish contingent because Cabell is now the proud owner of an 18th century Torah that had just been put on display.

Having learned at past forays to events at the JCC that I could never be mistaken for a Jew and decades past being mistaken for a student, the only group I neatly fit into was "people who take off their glasses to read," as exemplified by the guy reading a (gasp!) newspaper in the row in front of me, his glasses resting across his thigh.

Just as I was about to force conversation on a complete stranger and suggest we look for others like us in the room, a fellow culture-lover I've known for years took the seat in front of me, saying hello and then whispering that her father used to run liquor.

While processing that unexpected nugget, the program began and author Marni Davis began explaining the long and complex intertwining of Jews and alcohol.

It wasn't so much that Jews were drunks, in fact, she pulled out much period evidence to the contrary: testimonials from back in the day asserting that they could consume alcohol with rigorous moderation and that reason would overcome any passion for drunkenness.

But they'd brought from their home countries a deep-seated knowledge of how to make (mostly whisky) and sell it, convenient since U.S. residents had been heavy drinkers since the Colonial period. And truly, would you have stayed in this god-forsaken wilderness without alcohol? Exactly.

That appetite for booze offered a way for recent Jewish immigrants to establish themselves economically since all you needed to start a saloon was a few bottles and someplace for men to stand around and drink. Their needs are really very simple.

Then the Protestants decided that Prohibition was a great idea and proceeded to force it on the entire country, railing against the Irish immigrants and their whisky and the German immigrants and their beer and putting out alternative facts that these drinkers were having a negative effect at the ballot box. Horrors!

Part of what the Protestants got their panties in a wad about was that the Jewish saloon keepers saw no reason not to serve blacks and whites, problem being that whitey didn't like that, especially with Jim Crow taking over. How dare Jews not follow the well-established color divide in this fine country?

Gadzooks, when you look back right through to the current administration, it's tough to find a period in this country's history when arrogant and clueless white men weren't imposing their will on everybody else.

Like a good speaker, Davis had found a local link and showed an image of a label reading, "Straus Gunst and Company, whisky distributors, Richmond, Virginia," as if we didn't already have some sense of how long Ole Virginny's been making hooch.

Instead of staying for the post-talk reception and looking like a fish out of the Chosen People's water, I instead went to a comedy show at Crossroads Coffee along with scads of other people inside and on the patio. As many times as I've been there for music, I've never seen a crowd this size being entertained.

Of course, this new world order means everyone could use more reasons to laugh, too, besides at the inanity of those in charge.

I found a safe spot with a good view by a table with a gay couple who insisted I wasn't crashing their party by getting so intimate with their space. The more vocal of the two also provided running commentary about each of the bits ("Oh, no, she is not going to talk about that!" Um, she did), which I enjoyed immensely since it was delivered in such a soft voice.

There were four comedians scheduled, followed by an open mic night for which 20+ people had signed up for 13 spots, so things never lagged and the reasons to laugh kept coming, just from different faces at the back of the room.

No surprise, aspiring comedians riff on what they know. Their exes (and why they don't want to hear about your ex). Why lifeguards should charge by the pound for rescue. Having a bookie grandmother who ran numbers. How it's easier to give up crack than food because there are no crack commercials on TV to tempt you.

There was even dating advice. "Sleep with a Mom! They have the best snacks ever!" I've heard of a lot of reasons for sex, but snackage is a first.

One guy - bearded, large belly with a generous shirt - got up, looked over at an audience member - gray bearded, large belly with a generous dashiki - and announced to the room, "Look, that's a future version of me." Ouch.

The always-entertaining Mary Jane French took the stage to say,"I'm one of those trans-gendered women you've been reading about," before sharing that after surgery, her new girl parts looked so sore and swollen that she looked to her mother for advice. Asking her when the traumatized bits would look human, her Mom (sounding as sensible as mine), gave her the blunt truth.

"Human? I don't know, but it'll look better with time." Some mothers just don't want to talk vaginal beauty with their daughters. MJ assured us that she'd been given the real thing, though, no scientific simulation or pale imitation. "This isn't a Hydrox, this is a real Oreo."

The same comedian who'd asked for a show of hands of who's ever peed on a couch before (there were several in the air) ended with a clever comedic sign-off, saying, "Thank you for having me. I apologize."

As anyone's bookie grandmother can tell you, better to toss out an apology later than ask permission beforehand. Just as long as the apology's not too late.

And, please, keep it real. No Hydrox, thanks.

Lean In When It Gets Uncomfortable

If Martians were to drop in on Richmond lately, they could be forgiven for thinking of our film scene as diverse.

Never in my life can I recall so many films by and about the black experience. Just in the past couple of months, I've seen "Moonlight," "Fences," and "Hidden Figures" and I added two more over the past 48 hours.

For an overview of the country's racial conversation, Saturday Mac and I went to see Ava DuVernay's "13th," which VCU was screening as part of their Common Book program that has the entire campus reading and discussing the same book, Bryan Stevenson's "Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption."

Everyone was instructed to take a copy of the book, but Mac and I decided to take just one and share, a good call because she's already halfway though it.

She'd conveniently shown up with a small copy of the Constitution, which we used to clarify what we knew about the 13th amendment.

"Notice anything wrong with that?" she asked. Um, yea. Basically, slavery was abolished for everyone except criminals, making the mass incarceration that followed effectively the new Jim Crow.

Besides horrific and telling statistics - 1 in 3 black men will go to jail, while only 1 in 17 white men will - the documentary made the case for how every President since Nixon has furthered an agenda that involves mass incarceration of blacks. How that happened was laid out for us.

We've got 5% of the world's population but 25% of its prisoners.

If that isn't enough to get your blood boiling, how about this? Before "Birth of a Nation," burning crosses had never been part of the KKK's M.O., but when director D.W. Griffith used it for its striking cinematic value, the KKK adopted it as part of their insanity.

Oh, and just to add insult to injury in the film, the evil black man who eyes the young woman with bad intentions was played by a white man in blackface.

One of the documentary's strength was the well-chosen talking heads from author Bryan Stevenson to Angela Davis to Newt Gingrich to Henry Louis Gates, with one of the most compelling being author Michelle Alexander, who wrote "The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the age of Colorblindness," a reality that began with convict leasing after emancipation.

Laying out the case for how capitalism factors into this (companies like Verizon and Aramark make ridiculous amounts of money by servicing prisons), as does politics (look up ALEC to find out how politicians and corporations are in bed writing legislative bills that perpetuate the prison industrial complex) and, let's be real, racism.

It was impossible not to cry during a segment about a young man who was wrongly accused of a crime and deliberately chose not to take a plea because he wasn't guilty and wanted to make a stand. He spent three years in prison enduring beatings before being released due to lack of evidence.

On camera, he looked sweet and shaken by what he'd endured, all of it unnecessary. But it's when the voice-over says that a couple years later, he committed suicide that tears and sniffles began in the auditorium. Absolutely heartbreaking and not even all that unusual.

Mac and I walked out of there shaken and disturbed, as we should have been, by what we'd seen.  So naturally, tonight we headed to Criterion to see "I Am Not Your Negro," a look at race relations by way of one of the most literate black men of the 20th century on the subject.

Using the first 30 pages of a book playwright, poet, novelist and social critic James Baldwin began and didn't finish before he died, the film uses words from that manuscript read by Samuel L. Jackson to frame a look at race relations using TV and film footage from the Civil Rights era, along with footage of Baldwin on Dick Cavett's TV show and at lectures and debates at various universities.

Listening to him make a case for how the races were portrayed by Hollywood (black men like Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte were not allowed to appear sexy so as not to offend white sensibilities), in government films, ads and training films while watching such things was both revelatory and upsetting.

What was striking was how Baldwin's words transcended time and sound just as applicable to today's race conversation as they did then. "The world was never white," he says, reminding me of a cartoon I'd seen on Facebook earlier.

A white man and a Native American are listening as the radio announces that for the first time, non-white baby births have exceeded white baby births in the U.S. "Second time," the Native American says. Boom.

Tonight's film ended with Baldwin making the case that as a nation, we'll never get our act together until we deal with race and inequality, a fact of life that's not going to go away until we have hard talk and changed behavior.

Over Garnett's coconut cake with chocolate frosting, Mac and I agreed that between Baldwin's words and Haitian director Raoul Peck's chosen visuals, it was too much to process in one viewing.

That's undoubtedly a good thing because it provides incentive to experience it again and reconsider the talking points Baldwin so eloquently stated throughout the film.

Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.

Truth in a time when we couldn't need it more.

Son of a Biscuit

I have to laugh when a speaker begins by asking his lecture audience, "Why are you here?"

The lecture was another installment in VCU's race, citizenship and memory series, the man in question was professor William Maxwell, and his topic was that of his new book, "F.B. Eyes: How J. Edgar Hoover's Ghostreaders Framed African-American Literature."

Oh, right, and his question was based on what ridiculously gorgeous October weather we had abandoned for the sake of hearing his talk.

His lecture was a dense one and at one point he read something and then asked rhetorically, "Did I really write that sentence? Obviously I did." You could tell he'd relished getting access to the scads of recently-released FBI files to figure out the lengths the FBI had gone to trying to police black literature.

As if the FBI hadn't had better things to do.

One of the first men he spoke of was Hoover's #4 man, Sullivan, who, as it turned out, had written the so-called "suicide letter" to Martin Luther King, suggesting he'd failed in his mission and that he should "do the right thing," along with sending Coretta recordings of MLK with other women.

As a full-on geek, I was fascinated by Sullivan since I'd learned plenty about that letter from recently reading Ralph Abernathy's autobiography and now I was hearing about the perpetrator. It never stops amazing me how often that kind of coincidence happens.

He talked about how Hoover's bureau had targeted black organizations and all of the artists involved in the Harlem Renaissance, right on through 1972. How they had ghostreaders to try to suss out upcoming black protests.

But, of course, black writers knew they were being watched and read by these morons. Many wrote works addressing the surveillance, such as Richard Wright's "The F.B. Eye Blues" from 1949, to my mind, a brilliant and nervy way to protest such an unwarranted invasion of privacy.

He explained how white agents tried to "write black" in the forms of poetry and newspaper articles, their intent being to sway black opinion with fake black writings.

The biggest problem with Maxwell's lecture was that the topic was enormous and we could barely scratch the surface in the time allotted. Even so, I managed to glean the fascinating tidbit that Yale had produced an inordinate amount of spies from its English department during the mid-20th century.

That's a book there waiting to be written, if you ask me.

Talking about how there were files on every black literary figure and artist of the era, he said, "There was one on Billie Holiday. There's one on Duke Ellington. I'm sure it's very elegant." He said his father, an activist during the '60s, was disappointed to learn that the FBI had no file on him. Should've been black, sir.

He has to be one of the few to be disappointed not to have been in J. Edgar's cross-hairs.

While you might think, well, the logical thing after such a heavy lecture, Karen, would be something completely opposite, something frothy and fun, but no. Next on my agenda was VCU Cinematheque's screening of the documentary "Salvador Allende."

I've gone on record as saying how much I enjoy the eclectic programming of the Cinematheque series, but a weekly free film also comes with a price: VCU students in attendance.

I've got nothing against students, but at times, the vapid and inane conversations I'm privy to make me wish I was anywhere else. Case in point: tonight.

Some kids come in and one begins addressing the guy sitting nearest me. "Dude, your talk today was great. I was really into it. You should get a job selling something."

The object of his admiration seems genuinely touched by the compliment. "Thanks. Like what, man, sell informational videos and shit?" It's suggested he's good enough to give a TED talk, the benchmark of accomplishment for millennials.

Meanwhile, a nearby girl playing with her hair says to no one in particular, "The only thing I could give a TED talk on is, like, walking back and forth." No one acknowledges her.

There, I submit, are tomorrow's leaders.

And they must have been film students since I'm not sure a documentary about a former Chilean president trying to move the country to socialism would appeal to your typical 19-year old otherwise.

The problem is, they just don't appreciate the time capsule element of a good documentary. It's not just about the time depicted - in this case, early '70s -  but also about the time the documentary is made, here 2004.

And in another impressive coincidence, waiting for the film to start, I passed the time reading about Bob Woodward's new book, "The Last of the President's Men" about Nixon aide, Alexander Butterfield, all but guaranteeing that Tricky Dick would be all over tonight's documentary.

I'm telling you, life is weird that way.

My grasp of Chilean history was negligible, so I found the story of a man elected by the people who sets out to lead a non-violent revolution to create a socialist country completely compelling.

Like all great documentaries, director Patrico Guzman uses amazing historical footage to tell the story and here that includes scenes of a virile and smiling Castro on a visit to Allende after his first year in office.

There's Allende addressing the United Nations, abut multi-national companies answering to no one, a speech that garnered him a standing ovation.  The man is basically talking about globalization before we were sick of the word.

And there was terrific footage of rallies and marches, with all those handsome '70s-era Chilean guys smiling and posturing for the sake of a fair and free world.

But back to Nixon, who was worried about a Cuban/Chilean alliance and the spread of Marxism in that part of the world.

In an interview with the former US ambassador to Chile, we hear delicious details of how pissed Nixon was - calling Allende an S.O.B. and a bastard, both funny when coming out of the mouth of such a proper-looking man - about all that was happening.

Nixon was, of course, the man who ordered the CIA-sponsored coup that overthrew Allende's regime and put Pinochet in power. History's proven just how long the "bad choices" side of Nixon's accomplishment list is.

Totally unexpected was hearing a recording Allende made shortly before killing himself as the coup was happening. Let's just say tonight's Cinematheque offering was a hell of a history lesson.

Even a fine, fall day couldn't keep a girl from so much learnin'.

Why I Was Here

Pouring rain separates the geeks and the eaters from the weather wimps.

Tonight's installment of VCU's speaker series, "Race, Citizenship and Memory in the South" brought Dr. James Loewen, author of "Lies My Teacher Told Me," to the student commons to discuss "What Does the Civil War Mean in Richmond Today?"

Come on, wouldn't you be curious?

When I left Jackson Ward, the rain was so faint I barely needed an umbrella, By the time I got half a mile away, the skies had opened up and zealots were probably building an ark. Even a good espadrille can't save your feet from puddles as deep as the curb.

Despite the gushing sky, easily 80% of the students had no umbrellas and it couldn't have been that they'd been caught unaware. It's been raining off and on the entire day with a forecast of rain all week. Heck, even during the brief moments when rain and thunderstorms weren't predicted today, it was still supposed to be 100% humidity.

The crowd had plenty of drenched students but also a fair number of adults show up, so many, in fact, that the powers that be eventually realized they needed to put out more chairs for the standing masses.

But the crowd definitely skewed young and when he used the phrase "Perry Mason moment," and asked how many people knew who Perry Mason was, fewer than 20 people raised their hands.

Most were like the girl who came in and spotted the Asian guy with the perfectly-manicured Mohawk and blurted out, "What are you doing here?" and when he told her he came because it sounded interesting, she turned to her vapid-looking girlfriend and asked, "Are we at the right thing?"

No, honey, unfortunately you are, although you will get nothing out of the time spent listening to this man.

Loewen began by justifiably bragging that his book was the best-selling book (1.5 million copies) by a living sociologist. And, yes, it's a book about history.

He was a good speaker, engaging the audience, moving around and not reading some pre-packaged lecture. A real character, too, not shy about sharing his opinions or suggesting what we, the audience, could do to bring about change.

Part of his cred came from having taught at the blackest university (Tupelo) and the whitest (Vermont). At Tupelo, he'd been appalled at the history knowledge of incoming freshman, only to find that it was based on the BS history (bad sociology) that was being taught at Mississippi's black high schools.

People like Loewen don't accept crap like that, so he set out to write a Mississippi history book for use in K-12 classrooms. The school board rejected it, he took them to court, won and it was accepted.

Seems the white members of the school board objected to the state's real history being taught. As the quite humorous (and white)  Loewen put it, "You don't have to be white to get history wrong, but it helps."

You don't have to be engaging or amusing to give a humanities lecture, but it helps, too.

Richmond - or at least tonight's audience - acquitted itself beautifully when he quizzed us on why South Carolina seceded from the Union. Slavery? States' rights? Lincoln? Tariffs and taxes?

The largest contingent voted for slavery, which was the correct answer, although in the scores of other cities he's posed this question to, an average of 65% of people think it was about states' rights.

That, my friends, is because of how the history books have been written for far too long (basically since 1890). Nationally, only 20% of people queried know that slavery was the real reason, providing the motivation for him to try to change that.

He made a case for how since 2000, Richmond has revised its thinking on Civil War and slavery history, citing examples - Ralph White's "stealth" markers on the Slave Trail, the Reconciliation statue - and suggesting we do more, like re-contextualizing Monument Avenue with accurate and complete historical markers.

And, hey, if markers that don't toe the white supremacy historical line cause the monuments to be defaced or vandalized, so be it. Loewen means business. He also suggested a sesquicentennial event to mark Reconstruction, a period he says needs to be better taught, more widely acknowledged and remembered for the widespread misinformation disseminated since this crucial period.

So while Loewen didn't have the hellfire and brimstone delivery of a Cornel West, his was a completely fascinating look at how whites whitewashed history for generations of neo-Confederates, a term I'd never fully understood until tonight.

Kids, this is why sometimes we have to go out in the pouring rain

Which it was still doing when the lecture ended, but now I had the luxury of time to find somewhere to eat, winding up at the Roosevelt since it had been ages since I'd dined there.

You'd think a dark and stormy Tuesday night would make for easy seating, but the place was packed with a wait for bar stools and my stomach was having none of it, so I moved on to Dutch & Co., where things were far more civilized and a stool awaited me.

From it I had a picture-perfect view of the downpour silhouetted against the street light. Given how warm it was outside, a server and I discussed how much better it would be if we were ensconced on the porch of a beach (or river) house watching the rain instead.

And although my water view was nothing more than the stream of storm runoff rushing down 27th Street, the food was fabulous.

Worth going out in the pouring rain for.

I started with slices of frankfurter sausage over turnip green puree with a killer hash of sweet potato, onion and turnip seasoned with fermented lemon drop pepper, while talking about the bike race with all the Church Hill residents around me. Everyone had been wowed by the spectacle of the bikers and the sheer magnitude of the crowds.

A fashionista type spotted my waterlogged espadrilles and mentioned that this is the time of year she scouts the DSW website for cute shoes on sale and buys them for next year. I'm not sure I've ever been that forward thinking about shoes.

Some would say this makes me a failure as a female.

After the amazingly good housemade root beer I'd had last night, I asked what their current soda was, only to learn that the soda-maker is off on his honeymoon this week. And while I'll gladly forgo a soda for the sake of a cause as romantic as a honeymoon, I heard the happy couple is currently on an island off the coast of South Carolina, no doubt as soggy as we are here.

Not that honeymooners should require sunshine to have a good time.

My next course was scallop ceviche with garlic lime chutney, cilantro, tostones and crispy shallots on Bibb lettuce with -surprise! - whipped bone marrow. The point, I soon learned, was for the fat of the marrow to mitigate the heat of the chilis. Brilliant.

I got a ringing endorsement of the Peter Chang's at the beach, both about the quality of the food and the surprise of a dim sum menu. Surely, two of us decided, it's not too late for one more day getaway to the beach, especially with a superb dinner at the end of it?

By the time I finished eating and chatting, the dining room was down to two tables and the bar crowd and since it was pouring again, it didn't seem likely that there'd be another rush. You know how some people hole up once it starts to rain cats and dogs.

Which is great if you're on your honeymoon.

For the rest of us, there are southern lessons to be learned and fine foods to be eaten. At my age, I don't have to ask a friend. I was at the right things.

Give It Up, Turn It Loose

"Whoa RVA. You probably have nothing better to than go to this lecture tonight. Sweet."

That gentle reminder was from Nelly, a Richmond musician currently on the road, referring to the Cornel West talk at VCU tonight. She must have posted it just after I left my apartment to walk over to the Seigel Center.

There, I joined a line that snaked the length of the building, overhearing comments as we filed into the auditorium such as, "I fell in love with him because he's chairman of the Democratic Socialists of America," and "I haven't contacted Bernie Sanders' campaign yet, but I need to because that's where he needs help: the South." The first came from a guy who appeared to be about 18, the second from an aging hippie who probably voted for LBJ.

Knowing I'd have to wait once seated, I'd brought a book, "The Thurber Carnival," a delightful collection of James Thurber's essays and drawings from 1932-49.

Let's just say it was jarring reading dated descriptors such as, "with a colored woman like Della" and "Mrs. Robertson, the aged colored washerwoman" as I'm awaiting the start of a lecture by a major black intellectual in a series entitled, "Race, Citizenry and Memory in the South."

But that was then and this is now.

The crowd was diverse and just kept growing until the moment West walked out (accompanied by the man who introduced him) and began bowing to massive applause and then a standing ovation. Before he'd said a word.

But of course, we knew he'd have plenty of interesting points to make and he did, using the cadences and occasionally the rhetoric of a preacher on the pulpit. Meanwhile, people kept showing up although 95% of those who arrived after West was already speaking looked to be students (obviously raised by wolves).

He began by warning us that, "I move with the spirit so I don't move in calendar time," before moving through a one-hour talk and another hour spent answering audience questions.

In between, the audience testified when he said something profound, clapped when he hit a nerve and generally gave themselves over to the gospel of Cornel. Okay, there was one girl who sat plastered against her seat back, eyes wide, as if affronted by the passion of his commentary, but she was the exception.

Music and especially jazz were woven into his analogies. Talking about how Hoover had kept track of the goings-on of black literary and art figures, he roared, "Ever kept track of John Coltrane? How are you going to keep track of a love supreme?"

He talked about the inaccurate black worlds Disney created in films. "Yes, Disney enriched my childhood. I had to deconstruct it later."

Beginning with a Socratic note, he challenged everyone to decide what kind of human they'll choose to be. Running through his points and anecdotes was an entreaty to invoke our collective memory and examine preconceived notions.

Referencing people from Donny Hathaway ("He did not need a pat on the back") to Curtis Mayfield to Martin Luther King, Jr ("55% of blacks disapproved of him when he died but he didn't care because that's who he was"), he explained, "We love Lincoln, not because he was always right, but because he was willing to grow."

In an hour, he managed to address white supremacy, ecology, the 1%, "vanilla" suburbs and "chocolate" neighborhoods and the commodification of churches ("Not the titillation of praise choirs looking for a record deal").

He of course got political, with comments about the milquetoast neo-liberalism of the Democratic party, the donor-based and the corporate sponsored Presidential candidates ("The problem with Brother Trump is...well, that's another lecture").

Over the course of the evening, he admitted to two things. First, being a redeemed sinner with gangster proclivities, or, as he said, "I"m not being evangelical tonight telling you to become a Christian - it is a good idea - but that's not what I was doing."

Secondly, that he'd choose Aretha over Beyonce (while MLK had been devoted to Mahalia Jackson).

I feel sure I'm not alone in saying that it's always satisfying to spend time listening to a smart, funny man.

Once the Q & A ended, lots of people rushed the floor, no doubt eager to touch the man or ask for an autograph. He was quickly surrounded by a crowd.

For what? Far better to absorb what the man was saying and apply that to your life going forward than fawn, kids. Just do it.

The truth is, Nelly, I could have been satisfied at that point. I'd gotten to hear a brilliant man rail against not just the staus quo for blacks, but also for women, Latinos, the working class and poor and the prison population.

My mind had been stimulated and I'd gotten to hear an excellent orator.  But why not more?

Why not also go to Balliceaux for their first night with live music since closing at the beginning of the summer and just reopening two nights ago?

Why the hell not?

As I told several people tonight, I'm just happy to have one of my music venues back. I'd have felt the loss just as strongly if it had been Gallery 5 or Strange Matter that had closed for three months.

Bopst had booked Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess ("I love how her voice sounds like a 78 record. I wanna play scratching in the background," he says to me), a quartet of guitar, upright bass, clarinet/sax and washboard/cymbals, to re-inaugurate the back room and they were just beginning their first song when I went back there and found a place near the side.

Within moments, two couples were up and swing dancing, their perfectly synchronized moves an inspiration to the rest of us.

It's at least my third time seeing the band whose music is a pastiche of Dixieland, Tin Pan Alley and neo- bluegrass, with their secret weapon Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.

Once the band started "Old Fashioned Love," Bopst was on the floor in front of them, snapping pictures for the Internets (probably "Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess, Balliceaux, first set, NOW").

Near me, a guy slid his hand discreetly under the dress and up the leg of his girlfriend while continuing to look in her eyes and talk to her.

A barback returning from the side door by the stage where liquor is stored, two gallon bottles in each hand, did a nimble side step twice as he minced his way through the three couples dancing on the floor.

The lights were low, Jessy's voice was sultry and the band was swingin'.

Balliceaux was back to normal.

A very tall woman - maybe 5'10" or 11" - walked in wearing a cute dress and four-inch stilettos. Next time I saw her, the heels had been traded for white Keds and she was swing dancing.

During the band's second set, Jessy moved to the front of the stage to belt out a song without the mic, her voice carrying all the heartache of an old blues woman to the back of the room.

After another raucous number, she told her band, "Okay, let's do something easy. What's easy on that list?" Whatever it was, it got a few couples slow dancing.

Familiar faces dotted the crowd, all people I felt certain wanted to show their support for the return of live music: the organizer, the DJ, the former neighbor, the nattily-attired barkeep.

The last song was so fast-tempo that the three couples who staked out the floor were soon flummoxed. One stopped dancing and began clapping instead, another moved to the side and the third couple tore it up, changing out one partner for another throughout the fast part until all three were back to dancing with their partners by mid-song.

Yep, you read right. The evening was capped off with a dance-off to live music.

So, Nelly, don't worry. I went and heard Dr. West speak and then I went out for live music. I'm keeping the RVA flame burning in your absence. But come back soon because there is so much sweet stuff happening.

I just don't know how anyone had anything better to do tonight.

The Way It Is

Whatever the cost of our libraries, the price is cheap compared to that of an ignorant nation.

And that's the way it is, at least according to Walter Cronkite.

It's also what one person wrote today on the beam that was the centerpiece of the topping off ceremony at VCU's Cabell Library. Part of the allure was to get to leave your name on the beam and part was the enticement of using professional-grade Sharpies (can withstand heat up to 500 degrees Fahrenheit!).

When I arrived, the beam was already almost completely covered in signatures and drawings, but once handed a Sharpie, I managed to leave my marks in more than a few places.

I was bound to run into a musical friend who works at the library, finding her on a mission to schmooze donors. Before she left for that, she let me know that despite our expectations, not a single student had left the expected drawing of male genitalia on the beam.

We were perplexed. Isn't this an art school? Haven't kids been leaving drawings of penises in inappropriate places for centuries? What was wrong with this student body?

She asked if I'd had my picture taken in front of the green screen, but it had already been taken down. I'd missed my opportunity to have a photo taken standing in front of VCU's library of the future. Drat.

After she moved on, I found a seat on a sunny wall from which to watch the human comedy that is college students. Two pimply-faced guys were having a conversation.

"I told her, like, you need to text me back more. You need to, like, answer me."
(in an awed voice) "Damn, you own that relationship, man!"

Kids walked by in shorts and tank tops, shivering, and apparently unaware that today's temperature is 20 degrees chillier than yesterday's. At a table set up for collecting signatures for Amnesty International, one oblivious guy stood there eating all the cookie incentives meant for signees.

I spotted a music friend who works at VCU, looking far different in a suit than he does in jeans at a show. Two women moved through the crowd pushing a cart on which enormous flower arrangements sat.

Finally the Broad Street Brass band began playing and I stood on my brick wall perch as three speakers led off the ceremony. One explained that he monitored the library's Twitter feed which was rife with students complaining that there was never enough room.

"VCU needs this building if only to shut up the Twitter feed." Don't kid yourself, sir, they'll find something else to tweet complaints about.

He was also the one who shared the Walter Cronkite quote written on the beam. I wonder, though, how relevant Cronkite's quote is anymore. Once out of school, do adults even bother with libraries in 2015?

Once the crowd was instructed to move back, the crane looming above us slowly turned and dropped the hook with which two construction workers attached the beam and pulled it skyward.

With the band playing and the American flag on top of the library blowing briskly in the wind against the bright blue sky, the yellow beam was hoisted to the rooftop and pulled into place accompanied by applause.

My scrawlings now reside somewhere no one will see them to know what I wrote.

From below my lofty perch, a film friend spied me and observed, "I thought you'd be here." Of course, it's my first topping off ceremony.

While chatting about film and music, he mentioned that he'd recently gone to the library to get a book about Black Mountain College. They hadn't had what he'd come for, but he'd checked out four other books in the meantime. A subsequent trip to the Main library had yielded the book he sought.

Yes, Virginia, people do still use libraries. Or at least people over 40 do.

My library friend interrupted us to announce that after further inspection, she had indeed located a drawing of a penis on the beam just before it was hoisted up.

Praise be to the gods of pimply-faced college students everywhere. Assuming it never gets hotter than 500 degrees, their legacy will reside in the bowels of the VCU Cabell Library for all time.

Go, Rams!

Fun and Funner

So, yup, I've now done havoc.

I somehow got invited to a VCU Rams basketball game with three guys, two of them season ticket holders and rabid fans and one attending his first VCU game. Not to brag, but even I'd been to a VCU basketball game before (okay, once) and I'm the least athletically-inclined woman in Richmond.

We met at Ipanema to pre-game, which for them meant beer and pierogis, and for me meant white Rioja and our charming server's favorite salad of mesclun, orange, pomegranate seeds and nuts over grilled endive. Not everyone's idea of a pre-basketball meal, but pretty delicious to this non-fan..

Apparently it had been long enough ago since I'd been to a game that I didn't recall the VCU Peppas or the Goldrush dancers who were the entertainment every second that the team wasn't playing. And I use the term loosely because sometimes the extent of their entertaining was a handstand race across the court.

The game was far better entertainment. Having been raised by a mother who went to Catholic school in Washington, D.C., my sisters and I had been expected to understand basketball, much like the way my football-loving father expected us to knowledgeably follow that sport. For that matter, we had to play basketball in junior high and high school, so I also had that to fall back on.

It doesn't hurt that basketball is so fast-moving (no time to be bored) or that VCU has had such good teams the past few years (city pride). And while I wore a black sweater and a black, gold and orange skirt to show my allegiance, I was unprepared for the mass of black and gold that greeted me at the Siegel Center.

Of course I knew none of the ritual movements, songs or chants that everyone else seemed to know. Some questions (I had havoc as it pertains to the team explained to me) were directed at the guys I was with while other times I just watched what the fans did.  Luckily, clapping and cheering when VCU stole the ball or scored was instinctual.

During halftime, we milled around the practice gym where beer, wine and drinks were sold - sort of a giant beer garden - and people earnestly dissected the first half. I went to the ladies' room, where I found this delightful PSA on the stall door:

Even the horniest Rams are wary of condom slackers.
I mean, do we really need to wear a condom?
Absolutely!

I think that message is petty clear.

Everyone sitting around us was an expert on what VCU was doing wrong - not enough interior defense, couldn't hit the ocean if they tried, running out of steam while LaSalle was not - except me. I just watched hopefully for a win.

But of all the unlikely ways for someone's first VCU basketball game to end, tonight's went into overtime. Twice. Still it wasn't enough because they lost.

Our quartet decided to drown our sorrows at Ipanema again, although this time I went with a pot of mint tea while the guys kept to suds.

As we drank and chatted, people began arriving in droves, alerting us to the fact that something was going on. Hello, karaoke.

A guy came in, bowed and doffed his hat at me, a guy I used to work with at Media General who had a posse of out-of-town account reps with him. Talking to him, as always, was a delight, from his insistence that he always checks Style Weekly for my byline to discovering we had some friends in common.

I'd barely finished chatting with him about what he planned to sing for karaoke when I spied another former co-worker who pulled me aside to say hello. It was turning out to be old home week with some of my favorite guys from my last real job.

Once the staff had cleared away the front booths, karaoke was ready to roll and people began signing up to sing. And not what I'd expected given the relative youth of the crowd, but oldies.

Songs such as "With a Little Help from My Friends," Cher's "Do You Believe" and "Addicted to Love," but also songs from their toddlerhood: "Santeria," "Baby Got Back," and "Slim Shady." And as they sang, the crowd kept growing, with more people signing up to sing.

One of the guys I'd come with decided to take advantage of his wife not being there and began ordering shots, stuff like Jameson's and B52s, stuff I wouldn't drink if you paid me. Besides, I was already on to my second pot of tea when I wasn't standing up to get a better view of the brave soul singing.

Walking to the back to get a better view of the crowd, the manager smiled at me and gestured toward the frenetic dancing and enthusiastic singing going on up front. All around us, empty beer cans and glasses littered the tables like so many dead soldiers.

"Just a quiet, little vegetarian restaurant where you can relax and have a nice pot of tea," he joked around midnight.

I'm no expert, but it looked like a lot like havoc to me. Thankfully, the only losses I saw were dignity.

Baby, Come to Me

Just another evening feeding body and soul.

Remember 1986?

That's the year I moved to Richmond and the year Adam Gopnik began writing for The New Yorker.

Back in 2000, I'd read and loved his book Paris to the Moon, a series of essays about his time spent living as an ex-pat in Paris.

Tonight he was giving a talk at VCU as part of the annual Windmueller Lecture series, so I made sure to be there early enough to get a seat.

Good thing, because before long the Singleton Center was filled to capacity.

Titled "Doing Things and Doubting Things," his lecture was witty from the get-go.

He spoke of his wife, Martha Parker, remarking offhandedly that she had never changed her name or gotten U.S. citizenship despite 30 years of marriage.

Ha! Wonder how many times he's mentioned that in 30 years.

His talk centered on the mystery of mastery and were drawn from a series of essays he's written on learning to do things like drive a car (still a work in progress apparently), draw and bake bread.

As one who continues to try to learn and do new things, I could appreciate his efforts.

The emphasis was on the role of doubt in doing things, how doubt and error propel us forward.

His conclusion that the liberal arts are the basis for all change and that science follows after was bolstered with example of Galileo and Leonardo.

My opinion of him was bolstered by our shared pain. He, too, has five sisters.

The Q & A after the talk was a highlight, with the inquisitive audience really probing him on his comparisons of art and magic.

He gamely took questions for quite some time before sending us back into the world, our minds whirling with his thoughtfully intense and cockeyed way of looking at things.

Walking back up Harrison Street, I started considering where to eat.

I've been busy with so many restaurant reviews lately that I haven't been able to dine where I please as often as I like to.

But tonight no deadline called and I was free to give in to my whim.

Bingo. It had been too long since the Roosevelt.

On this beautiful evening with a last quarter moon, I walked in to find the bar half empty.

Taking a seat near the end, I settled in for a relaxing evening with nothing more than the staff for company.

It took less than two minutes for a nearby barsitter to overhear the bartender talking to me and insert herself into the conversation, letting us know that she also knew the person we were mentioning.

Next thing I knew, she was introducing herself and we were discussing tequilas.

Isn't that always the way in Richmond?

With Jerry Lee Lewis blaring on the speakers, I ordered a glass of Rockbridge Pinot Noir and fried duck nuggets with sweet and sour sauce and pineapple relish.

I couldn't resist once bartender T told me that it was Chef Lee's take on Chick-fil-A's Polynesian nuggets.

You gotta love a chef who riffs on Chick-fil-A.

Across the street, we noticed Sub Rosa Bakery's owner Evrim standing on his stoop speaking to about 20 people.

No one had any idea what the occasion could be and everyone was too lazy to walk across the street.

Me, I was ready for more food.

One of my restaurant pet peeves is tempting-sounding specials only available in entree size.

So when I heard about seared red fish with plum and salsify in black walnut butter, I politely asked about a half portion.

Not a problem, I was told and while the meaty fish was definitely the star, the contrasting textures of the soft plum and crunchy, tuberous salsify were perfect together.

Meanwhile, my infotainment was coming from T, who was lecturing two new arrivals about emerging east coast Madeiras.

I'd already noticed that there were no longer any Ports or dessert wines on the menu, replaced by ciders, probably because it's the season.

I asked and he let me know that glasses were still available if one was interested.

Good to know, but at this point, more Pinot Noir would do just fine.

Chef Lee came out to chat and ask about all the places I'd recently reviewed, making me think he's too busy to pick up a Style and read it for himself.

Or maybe he just likes to hear it from the horse's mouth.

When I inquired where he'd eaten lately, I got a typical chef answer: carryout from the local Vietnamese place in his neighborhood.

By then I was trying to decide between another small plate and dessert and he swayed me in the savory direction by suggesting an unadvertised special for a great price.

Twist my arm.

It wasn't long before an obscenely rich small plate arrived with rabbit three ways.

Tiny, little pieces of liver, loin, kidneys and slivers of belly sat atop black lentils with golden raisins, fried brussels sprouts and radish slices.

Be still my heart (which the rabbit's apparently was given the other items on the plate), this was a mighty decadent thing to be eating at this point in the evening.

Did that stop me? Perish the thought.

I ate most of it anyway, my arteries clogging and blood thickening as I savored the distinct flavors of each.

So much for dessert. Goodbye, Port.

As for doing things and doubting things, Adam Gopnik would have been proud.

I never doubted that I could eat so much delectable food and I ended up doing it.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't what he meant...

Student of Life Maybe

I was just minding my own business.

Walking down Harrison Street, a man approaches me.

"Good morning, young lady," he says affably. "Are you a VCU student?"

I admit that I'm not.

"I give notebooks to VCU students," he says as if I hadn't just spoken. "Would you like a notebook?"

I demur even as he hands me a distinctive notebook.

It has a brushed metal front and a thick, cardboard back. It's a really nice notebook, easily the finest I've ever had.

"Here's a bag for you to carry it home in," he says as I thank him.

There's no doubt that I'll use my new notebook. Give me paper and I will write.

But I am not, and have never been, a VCU student.

Is this the grown-up equivalent of taking candy from a stranger?

If so, I think I'm okay with it.

Universal Q & A

Sundays are different.

Even though I walk every day of the week, there's always a different vibe to my Sunday stroll.

For one thing, walking through the VCU part of it is usually like walking through a ghost town.

Not so today because hell block was buzzing with move-in activity.

As a new crop of students eagerly take over the apartments that have played host to countless games of beer pong and anonymous hook-ups, it's funny to see the parents looking so worried about this next big step.

Let 'em go, I say. If you've done a good job as a parent, they'll be fine.

Ahh, I see. No wonder you're looking so concerned. A little late now.

But don't get me started.

Walking down Belvidere, a man approaching me steps off the sidewalk on to the grass to let me pass.

"Pretty girls scare me," he says with a smile and a sweep of his arm. "So, please go on."

Only on Sunday.

Heading home, I walk by a porch where two women are talking to a young girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old.

"Walk outside every day and ask the universe for answers," one of the women tells the child as I pass.

If that isn't the most appropriate Sunday advice I could hope for, I don't know what is.

My walks are an opportunity to ask my questions. Every single day.

Good Morning, Irene

I am many kinds of nerd, but certainly one of my longest running is as a weather nerd.

For thirteen years, I kept a color chart of cloud formations taped inside my kitchen cabinet in case I needed a quick reference.

Cumulonimbus? Cirrus? Stratocumulus? I wanted to know my clouds.

So when I heard about a public screening and lecture called "Weather Mass Movement," I was determined to attend despite the 11 a.m. Saturday start time.

I have to admit that the allure of a pancake breakfast to accompany the weather didn't hurt, either.

So I was up by 10:25, and walking over to Sponge HQ at the Anderson Gallery by 10:40.

The smell of pancakes cooking lured me up the three flights of stairs where I found other sleepy looking people mainlining Lamplighter coffee.

As a non-coffee drinker, I need to be brought to life in other ways.

I was second in line for pancakes, slathering them with enough butter and real maple syrup to make my 10:25 wake-up call seem like a very good idea.

Sponge's mistress Hope wished us all a happy earth day, saying that it seemed like a good day to reflect on the weather (and accompanying drama) and introducing the SP Weather Station team of Nathalie and Heidi.

They talked about the evolution of their fascination with weather, installing weather stations on rooftops and collecting data.

Because you know, with weather it's all about observation and prediction and a lot of the observation in the weather world comes from non-experts.

Yes, I'm a non-expert.

The two made me grin when they talked about "cooperative observers" (which they are not) who help collect weather data for the experts.

Their purpose in coming to VCU had been to assist students in creating a time lapse video of the movements of Hurricane Irene last August.

Using wool tufts to simulate clouds on a map, the film showed the storm gathering force and eventually traveling up the east coast.

The arduous process required endless effort to shift the formations, photograph it and then do it all over again.

For six hours.

But the resulting stop motion film was beautiful and told the story of the storm that rained down hard on Richmond that day.

I remember well; part of my bedroom ceiling came crashing down that night because of Irene's wetness.

When the presentation ended, Hope was the first to stand up.

"I have a question," she said. "Are there going to be more pancakes?"

Riley, the student with pancake duties, immediately got up to turn on the burners under the pans.

With my head full of weather images and my belly full of buttery pancakes, I left Sponge to do my daily walk.

Almost immediately I heard, "Karen!" and looked up to see my favorite activist on the steps of a building across the street. "Haters gonna hate!" she called smiling, referring to the online trolls judging my latest review.

So true.

By the time I got over to Grace Street, one of my walking regulars spotted me and came charging out of the Village.

"A dress?" he shouted incredulously from across the street.

Yes, a dress. When one goes to a weather event with pancakes, one likes to wear a dress.

It makes it easier to feel the weather as you walk under the stratus clouds.

Just ask any cloud chart-posting weather nerd.

The Romance of Being a Muse

There are few pleasures that satisfy me on the level that having poetry read to me does.

That it was a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet doing the reading made it all the better.

Add in his deeply resonant and cadenced voice and I was practically ready to swoon.

VCU was hosting poet Yusef Komunyakaa tonight so I called up a fellow poetry lover to take it in with me.

Arriving at the Singleton Center to be greeted by the same smiling face that had greeted me at the Listening Room two nights ago was an unexpected treat.

Inside we found a mostly full auditorium and scored good seats among the crowd of poetry lovers and students.

VCU's head librarian noted that honors students would need to sign a sheet to get extra credit for attending while the rest of us got it automatically.

Because when it comes right down to it, life is all about the extra credit.

And then Yusef Komunyakaa took the stage.

Explaining that poetry for him was about confrontation and celebration, he began reading at a measured pace that commanded the room.

"I am a riddle to be unraveled," he read from "When Eyes Are on Me," echoing a sentiment I've often had.

In "How Is It?" he wrote "My muse is holding me prisoner," acknowledging that "I think she knows with her kisses in my mouth, I could walk on water."

That strikes me as very confident muse.

After years of dealing with his Vietnam war experience in his work, he said that in 2002 he'd promised himself that he wouldn't write about it anymore.

He then proceeded to write "Grenade" about the fourteen young black soldiers who threw themselves on grenades during combat.

"Your body doesn't belong to your mind and soul."

The mental imagery that it conjured up was heart-wrenching.

One poem he recited without reading to a responsive audience reaction, including nodding and clapping, almost testifying.

More than a few people were taking pictures, which seemed a tad distracting given the emotional weight of the man's words.

He closed with "My Father's Love Letters," a poem about the letters he wrote out for his father to his absent and abused mother, before taking questions from the audience.

Walking out afterwards took a minute of adjustment back to the real world after being lost in Komunyakaa's words and voice so completely.

But we made the transition and deposited ourselves at Mint, the only restaurant I know of with four toilet paper holders in each bathroom stall.

There's a certain kind of brilliance in that, I think.

The place was packed, very loud and as lively as could be. We lucked into a couple vacating their barstools and sat down quickly before someone else did.

With Tiamo Pinot Grigio in hand, we raised our glasses to poetry and started ordering food.

I fell hard for the complementary flavors of the pulled pork barbecue, pickled slaw and johnny cake taco, a steal at three bucks.

The crispy cider-braised pork belly was decent, but the collard greens were notable for their exquisite
flavoring in the greens, so good that a friend who doesn't usually like their bitterness said she loves this version.

They were perfectly seasoned I'd agree.

Bacon-wrapped dates took a step out of the ordinary with chipotle butter adding some heat.

The couple next to us, who had never heard of bacon-wrapped dates (!) before, became overwhelmed with the sweet richness of the dates, leaving the last one stripped of its bacon and headed to the trashcan.

At least they didn't waste the bacon.

A grilled baby romaine salad had Creole Cesar dressing and sharp white cheddar, but it was the grilling that distinguished it.

My fellow poetry lover and I were both eager to try the beignet of the day (she was even hoping for a cup of chickory coffee, but alas), even after our server referred to them as "doughnut holes."

Gosh, I don't know why they don't call them that at Cafe du Monde.

Today's flavor was banana, not a favorite flavor for either of us.

Yesterday's flavor had been blueberry (which we'd have loved) and white chocolate preceded that, but we decided to give banana beignets a shot.

The three hot doughnut holes came with macerated strawberries and fresh blueberries and had a distinctly un-banana like flavor, which suited us just fine.

Meanwhile, I said hello to several people I knew: the friend with the tights fetish, the former neighbor who teased me about not going out enough and the new mom showing off baby pictures.

It was only once a guy came up and sat next to me that I decided I wanted to go. He asked me my name, put his hand on my hip and reeked of alcohol.

Looking him in the eye, I removed his hand from my hip and moved away

Undaunted, he proceeded to do the same to my friend.

Walking out together, she and I agreed that there are some places no guy is allowed to touch unless he's your main squeeze.

And your hip is one of them.

Because your body doesn't belong to anyone you don't want it to.

Confrontation and celebration, it's not just in poetry, it's life.

It's just more beautiful in poetry.

Oh, (Karen) Kay!

Gershwin at noon is irresistible and, let's face it, they can't take that away from me.

Patrick Smith was giving a lecture, "Grasping Gershwin: The Man Behind the Music," complete with musical clips.

So I wound my way through VCU's Cabell Library, only to hear "Hello, Karen" from behind.  It was a favorite poet who'd recognized me by (what else?) my tights.

Once in the lecture room, I saw a friend, singer and accordionist also in attendance.

Goofy for Gershwin, all of us.

Smith talked about Gershwin's musical siblings, talented musicians all, except for brother Arthur who was merely a "musical enthusiast."

Personally, I consider that the highest compliment.

We beard about Gershwin's years on Tin Pan Alley, his mega-success when Jolsen recorded "Swanee" and his foray into symphonic jazz.

It was that battle between high brow and low brow music that Gershwin took as his challenge and mission.

Naturally I was taken with the story of Gershwin's great love, a woman named Kay (coincidentally, also my middle name) whom his mother forbade him to marry (she wasn't Jewish) so he carried on a life-long affair with her.

That love manifested itself in the music he wrote for the musical, "Oh, Kay!"

Now that was an essential piece of Gershwin trivia I definitely needed to know (and my needs have been quite the topic of conversation lately).

The engaging Smith talked about the experimental concert for which Gershwin composed "Rhapsody in Blue" and how he heard "music in the very heart of the noise" of the train he was riding on as he composed it.

Of course the tragedy was how young Gershwin died of a brain tumor, silencing his musical output.

Luckily, he'd already put his philosophy out there.

"Don't die with you music still inside of you. Listen to your intuitive inner voice and find what passion stirs your soul."

Every day, all day. And night.

A Leo Line

My walk didn't even get started until after noon today and then I was surprised to find Grace Street crowded with families and graduates in gowns. And...

Him: I'm a Leo and I'm from Jersey, so I gotta say what's on my mind.
Me: Shoot.
Him: You're gorgeous, in really great shape.
Me: You mean for a white girl?
Him: I mean for any color girl.
Me: Thanks. (starting to walk away and thinking how well that went)
Him: One more thing. Think about me when you're in bed tonight.

Sir, you're not setting a very good example for the graduates, now are you?

Your Unofficial Tour Guide

I may not look like a VCU tour guide, but I spent the day so far playing one. A friend had e-mailed me yesterday (subject line: short notice) asking if she could bring her daughter down today for a tour of VCU.

I'm not exactly an expert, not having gone to school or taught at VCU, but between lectures, music, films, plays, demonstrations, interviews, and even just walking, I've spent my fair share of time on campus, so I graciously agreed to do what I could.

I like to think that my spiel had a unique twist to it ("This is Monroe Park, where the annual Halloween parade starts.") and included some pertinent facts not normally shared during the official school tours ("Whether or not you like Ethiopian food, don't miss the dance parties at the Nile."). Hey, I did my best.

To be complete, I did do some actual touring, taking them into the library, the student commons, the dance building, the Singleton Center and the Grace Street Theater and pointing out any number of other big buildings.

Naturally I had to take her into Rumors so she'd know where to shop (she bought a jacket), resulting in owner Marche and I crowing over our recent shared photo taken at Ipanema, another place the potential student needed to know about.

I explained the compass, the Village, Strange Matter and Plaza Art as we headed east for lunch, making a brief stop at Lift. We heard a trumpet player near the theater and a bongo player near the dance building. I've got to tell you, showing her everywhere she might want to hang out or spend money was getting exhausting.

We lunched at Tarrant's for the variety of menu (mother and daughter were in completely different food moods) and with my infrequent daylight presence there, the staff greeted me enthusiastically (Friend: "Do they know you everywhere?"). We took a discreet table on the new side (Owner Ted on our way out, "I saw you hiding over there.").

The student was most impressed by two things on the menu: fresh-squeezed lemonade and meatloaf; apparently these aren't common menu items at home. Welcome to the south, I guess?

I went with the Monte Cristo with the hand-cut chips, which I highly recommended to my friend, who added them to her Cubano sandwich, much to her eating pleasure. The student got a cheeseburger that looked like it weighed more than she did and devoured it. She'll do well as a starving student.

We stopped by Gallery 5 on our way home so they could get the feel of a local gallery space. Leaving, my friend spotted the sign on the door saying, "No alcohol beyond this point."

"But why would there be alcohol in a gallery?" she inquired earnestly. Maybe I hadn't covered everything I needed to cover about Richmond.

"Let me explain a few more things, " I said as we headed down the street...

Bruised Where the Sun Don't Shine

The snow didn't stop me from my daily walk the past two days, although I did modify my route and stay in J-Ward.

The main streets were fairly clear and there was very little vehicular traffic, so that's where I walked for the most part.

Today I decided to venture over to my usual VCU/Fan route to see what was happening over there.

The good news was VCU had cleared all their sidewalks, making for easy walking.

The bad news was that most of the other sidewalks were a crusty, icy mess (we won't even talk about the state of Hell Block's sidewalks).

The trade-off was the abundance of snow men I saw once I got beyond VCU. Just Saturday, I was lamenting the absence of snow sculpture and here was Grace Street just full of them.

Snowmen of every design were perched in yard after yard; one wore a bandanna, another a baseball cap, one had a crown of leaves and one seemed to be wearing a jock strap. Another was headless.

One snow figure had a tail and ears, so I don't think it was a snowman at all.

After all that treacherous walking, I was glad to be nearly home when I paused at the intersection at the end of my block for an approaching car.

The guy gave me a big smile and I turned toward my house, at which point my legs went over my head and I landed on the side of my right thigh.

As I sit here typing this, I can feel an enormous bruise forming right where my hip meets my thigh.

Oh, it's going to be a beaut.

I suppose there's the consolation that absolutely no one besides me will see it.

Wait, what am I saying? That's absolutely no consolation at all.