Despite what a girl thought last night, we do not have a drive-thru.
~sign outside the Village
Infrequent are the days I can start out with gay rights, move seamlessly through Van McCoy to lap steel and wind down watching a blowhard being thrown under the bus.
Tangentially, there was chocolate times two.
My interest was piqued in the Cabell Library's panel discussion on "The Struggle for Recognition of VCU's First Gay Student Group 1974-76" because of the student activist era, with a pinch of historical curiosity since I wasn't in Richmond in the '70s.
Read aloud by multiple people on the panel, the history of VCU's first gay student organization was a study in tenacity when the university's Board of Visitors refused official recognition to the group for fear it would encourage borderline students to become homosexuals.
That's right, VCU was sanctioning prejudice in 1974 (barely a year after homosexuality was removed from the official list of psychiatric disorders, mind you), which may help explain how sodomy wasn't legalized until 2003.
Truly, my mind boggles at the thought that it's only been 13 years.
But props to VCU's Gay Alliance of Students for enlisting the American Civil Liberties Union and fighting it all the way to the U.S. Court of Appeals, even if it did necessitate raising $300 in filing fees.
That's what doughnut sales and fundraisers at the Cha Cha Palace are for, right? Man, the '70s were simpler times.
Maybe it was all the bicentennial bullshit, but in 1976, the court soundly rejected VCU's argument, setting a precedent for gay student groups at colleges across the country.
That history alone would have been worth hearing, but the panel discussion provided four students from that original group, sharing their memories and insights about their historic quest to organize.
The funniest comments came from a panelist who'd been a straight advocate for the group back in the day and she began by saying, "I now know why I'm a gay person" and explaining how it took 8 years to become gay, but, "I'm so grateful."
We've come a long way, baby.
Listening to the radio getting ready to go out, the DJ played a Van McCoy-penned hit that was instantly familiar, but not from the disco era with which I associated his music.
No, 1965's "Baby I'm Yours" sung by a singer named Barbara Lewis was one of those songs you've heard 100 times but never really knew anything about.
But now I know Van was just honing his chops for the tsunami that would be "The Hustle."
Closer to evening, I headed to a favorite pocket park for the music event that relies on community not computers (no social media invitations), only to run into friends galore before the trio began playing under the trees.
Milling about were the dance party king, the international touring musician, the master looper, the passionate teacher, the bagel-maker and the scientist who, in his usual fashion, pulled out a bar of Ritter Sport dark chocolate with whole hazelnuts to offer me some.
You never travel without chocolate, I commented in appreciation. "What would that be like?" he quipped, offering me more.
Lucky me, I've never run into him at an event that he didn't have chocolate at the ready.
Playing al fresco tonight was acoustic guitarist and vocalist Andy Jenkins, sitting atop a picnic table, backed by the incomparable Cameron Ralston on bass and Alan Parker on electric guitar.
"Even in an intimate setting, I'm awful at banter, but I hope everyone is doing well," Andy told the crowd of 60 or so as they sat drinking out of growlers, munching on steamed shrimp and chewing the bones of pizza.
His plaintive songs told stories of being stoned, the Shenandoah Valley and finishing a book, while twice Cameron swapped his electric for an upright bass and once Alan sat cross-legged on the brick to play lap steel (a friend whispered, "Alan's talent is so ridiculous") for a song about a lazy man falling in love again.
And then it was fully dark, the sun having set as we enjoyed the music, and time to go to Camden's for tonight's VEEP debate, only to learn that the presenting sponsor of the debate was Anheuser Busch.
American politics in action, brought to you by cheap beer. Unseemly or not? Discuss.
My favorite honey-dripping southern accent was there with her "Big Daddy" (as she calls her handsome husband of decades) and sufficient smart-assed comments to carry us through the debate while parrying with other political junkies around us.
There was just enough time for supper - a special of seared scallops over wheatberry salad followed by chocolate pate pie - before glasses of Gruner Veltliner were topped off and the Virginian took the stage to sacrifice his own likability for the sake of prosecuting the absent Republican nominee.
It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it tonight.
What was fascinating, at least to this Democrat, was how easily and nonchalantly Pence threw the non-tax paying candidate under the bus, rarely bothering to defend his main man but clearly setting the stage for his own run in four years.
Tim Kaine, don't worry, we know you're a far more measured man than you were able to display tonight and we completely understand why you had to keep interrupting and pushing points about the buffoon who shall not be named.
What I would have liked to have seen, at least once or twice, was his wife Anne's reaction as he was thrust into the role of eviscerating a potato-looking megalomaniac to his self-serving minion. Because I do think she'll be his until 2 and 2 are 3, until the mountain crumbles to the sea.
Tuesday amused me in all kinds of ways.
Showing posts with label vcu cabell library. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vcu cabell library. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Thursday, February 25, 2016
You Can Leave Your Hat On
As surprising days go, this one had a lot to recommend it.
Today's road trip took me to Petersburg in the pouring rain, to a house where Lincoln met Grant to talk about the end of the Great Unpleasantness. War mongering aside, I was there to try on hats and admire a rather eclectic and enormous collection of stuff that resided in this house.
After establishing that my head is a large - no surprise since this is something my sisters and I have always been known for, along with disproportionately long legs and short cracks - I tried on gorgeously wide-brimmed hats that had the effect of almost making me look like a Southern belle and cloche styles that evoked flappers.
There was even one black and straw hat similar to the one purchased by Lynda Carter, which was a particularly interesting coincidence since Wonder Woman figured prominently in my plans once I returned to the capital city.
That's right, VCU's Cabell Library had put Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane on display for today only, complete with background and history. If it tells you anything, it was displayed at the Smithsonian on April 1 last year.
Now here's the real joke: I knew nothing about Wonder Woman. Never read the comic, never saw the '70s show, never even knew the super-hero premise. Which was exactly why I thought it kind of important to attend Jill Lepore's talk on "The Secret History of Wonder Woman," also the title of her book, and gain a little insight on the subject.
That meant inserting myself into an auditorium with lots of students in it, students who actually said things like, "Yea, but then you're going to have to deal with a bunch of young millennials who are sweaty and drunk."
The superior-sounding guy who said this couldn't have been more than nineteen. Hysterical.
Better yet, Lepore's talk turned out to be just the kind of cultural history that fascinates me.
In short order, she explained '70s "jiggle TV," which included both "Wonder Woman" (her twin brother's favorite) and "The Man from Atantis" (hers), which apparently involved Patrick Duffy pre-"Dallas" in a yellow Speedo ("So he was practically naked") and moved back in time to the excessive violence of 1930s male-dominated comic books.
A public opinion poll asked if Wonder Woman should be allowed to join the Justice Society as a means of establishing a standard of strong and courageous womanhood and enough people said yes to make it happen.
Where things got interesting was with the writer, William Marston, an avowed supporter of women's rights, a man who said that women like Wonder Woman should rule the world. A man who as a college freshman had been a member of Men for Women's Suffrage. A man who lived not only with his wife, but with a graduate student with whom he fathered two children.
A man who also invented the lie detector, wrote silent films for D.W. Griffith, penned a book called "Emotions for Normal People" and then detailed why certain behaviors should be considered normal (they weren't at the time). An odd bird, for sure.
What was so compelling was how her research showed that it was Marston's interests - in women's voting rights, in porn, in bondage, in birth control - that were being popularized through the character of Wonder Woman in her sassy costume and kinky boots based on a Vargas Girl from "Esquire" magazine.
I tell you what, it was a damn informative lecture, all the more so for how Lepore repeatedly pointed out how little women's history is taught in our schools. Middle-aged woman throughout the room invisibly raised their fists in support.
She made a terrific case for Wonder Woman tying together first and second wave feminism, a lesson most of the students could have used had they not already dipped out.
Walking home afterwards was exciting in that way that weather suddenly takes precedence over everything else. A fierce wind was whipping my hair and skirt but it was also eerily warm with an incredibly menacing sky, no doubt a foreshadowing of the bad news that awaited me there.
Bingo at Gallery 5 was canceled. Aw, man. I love my bingo nights.
Just as I was allowing that change in my plans to sink in, the tornado sirens cranked up like we were in Oklahoma or something. And not once, but several times until finally the torrential winds and rain began and I couldn't see across the street anymore.
I'll be honest with you, though, initially I wasn't sure what the sirens meant. It's not like we hear them in Richmondmuch ever, but luckily we have the Internets to fill in the gaps in our knowledge.
My magic screen tells me there was a tornado in Chester at 5:52 that's supposed to pass over downtown/VCU at 6:10, so I figure I'll get cleaned up and go eat once the danger has passed.
Say, 6:20 or so.
Heading over to the Roosevelt, the sirens start up again, but in the distance, so I don't worry about it too much. It's not like there are cows or single-wides in the neighborhood to go flying past me, right?
Since the really pounding rain seems to come in waves, I spend time sitting in the car once I get to Church Hill, waiting for the rain to slacken enough to make a break for it. Even with flowered boots and a raincoat, I'm a little soggy on arrival.
Taking a seat at the bar, I find that most of the people around me are neighbors who'd sought refuge once they heard a storm was coming. Apparently it's less common to hear the sirens and leave for another neighborhood like some of us had.
Meanwhile, a woman near me was seriously freaked out, not by the potential of wind and rain damage, but by a yellow egg that kept showing up in different places around her house without her or her husband moving it. First it was on the table, then on the windowsill, then inside a candle with a lid on it and this was causing her some genuine consternation. Floorboards creaking at night weren't helping, either.
Trying to reassure her, I explained that my parents' house has a ghost - they even know her name: Bertha - and they've all peacefully co-existed for 32 years. You can't let a little thing like paranormal activity weird you out.
Turns out she could.
Just about the time I'd decided what I wanted for dinner, the bartender showed up with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and a recitation of the specials, which naturally changed my order entirely.
A warm, wet night like this felt beachy, you know, wild and watery, just perfect for a fried trout sandwich with hot sauce and cole slaw, the piece of trout hanging off the seeded bun by about three inches on either side, jutting into the fries.
Just what you ought to be eating when you have damp hair and bare feet inside rubber boots.
Next to me, a woman who lived four blocks away worked on a cheeseburger while we discussed the dining scene and how glad she was to have bought a house in Church Hill five years ago.
I still say it's too disconnected for my taste - I want to be able to walk most anywhere I might want to go - but I know plenty of people who like that about it.
Fish gone, I told the bartender I wanted dessert and he knew what I wanted without asking, or at least made the right guess. Trying to resist chocolate pudding with orange zest was futile, so I didn't.
"Wine and chocolate, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?" he inquired with a grin.
Actually, I hope it does.
Today's road trip took me to Petersburg in the pouring rain, to a house where Lincoln met Grant to talk about the end of the Great Unpleasantness. War mongering aside, I was there to try on hats and admire a rather eclectic and enormous collection of stuff that resided in this house.
After establishing that my head is a large - no surprise since this is something my sisters and I have always been known for, along with disproportionately long legs and short cracks - I tried on gorgeously wide-brimmed hats that had the effect of almost making me look like a Southern belle and cloche styles that evoked flappers.
There was even one black and straw hat similar to the one purchased by Lynda Carter, which was a particularly interesting coincidence since Wonder Woman figured prominently in my plans once I returned to the capital city.
That's right, VCU's Cabell Library had put Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane on display for today only, complete with background and history. If it tells you anything, it was displayed at the Smithsonian on April 1 last year.
Now here's the real joke: I knew nothing about Wonder Woman. Never read the comic, never saw the '70s show, never even knew the super-hero premise. Which was exactly why I thought it kind of important to attend Jill Lepore's talk on "The Secret History of Wonder Woman," also the title of her book, and gain a little insight on the subject.
That meant inserting myself into an auditorium with lots of students in it, students who actually said things like, "Yea, but then you're going to have to deal with a bunch of young millennials who are sweaty and drunk."
The superior-sounding guy who said this couldn't have been more than nineteen. Hysterical.
Better yet, Lepore's talk turned out to be just the kind of cultural history that fascinates me.
In short order, she explained '70s "jiggle TV," which included both "Wonder Woman" (her twin brother's favorite) and "The Man from Atantis" (hers), which apparently involved Patrick Duffy pre-"Dallas" in a yellow Speedo ("So he was practically naked") and moved back in time to the excessive violence of 1930s male-dominated comic books.
A public opinion poll asked if Wonder Woman should be allowed to join the Justice Society as a means of establishing a standard of strong and courageous womanhood and enough people said yes to make it happen.
Where things got interesting was with the writer, William Marston, an avowed supporter of women's rights, a man who said that women like Wonder Woman should rule the world. A man who as a college freshman had been a member of Men for Women's Suffrage. A man who lived not only with his wife, but with a graduate student with whom he fathered two children.
A man who also invented the lie detector, wrote silent films for D.W. Griffith, penned a book called "Emotions for Normal People" and then detailed why certain behaviors should be considered normal (they weren't at the time). An odd bird, for sure.
What was so compelling was how her research showed that it was Marston's interests - in women's voting rights, in porn, in bondage, in birth control - that were being popularized through the character of Wonder Woman in her sassy costume and kinky boots based on a Vargas Girl from "Esquire" magazine.
I tell you what, it was a damn informative lecture, all the more so for how Lepore repeatedly pointed out how little women's history is taught in our schools. Middle-aged woman throughout the room invisibly raised their fists in support.
She made a terrific case for Wonder Woman tying together first and second wave feminism, a lesson most of the students could have used had they not already dipped out.
Walking home afterwards was exciting in that way that weather suddenly takes precedence over everything else. A fierce wind was whipping my hair and skirt but it was also eerily warm with an incredibly menacing sky, no doubt a foreshadowing of the bad news that awaited me there.
Bingo at Gallery 5 was canceled. Aw, man. I love my bingo nights.
Just as I was allowing that change in my plans to sink in, the tornado sirens cranked up like we were in Oklahoma or something. And not once, but several times until finally the torrential winds and rain began and I couldn't see across the street anymore.
I'll be honest with you, though, initially I wasn't sure what the sirens meant. It's not like we hear them in Richmond
My magic screen tells me there was a tornado in Chester at 5:52 that's supposed to pass over downtown/VCU at 6:10, so I figure I'll get cleaned up and go eat once the danger has passed.
Say, 6:20 or so.
Heading over to the Roosevelt, the sirens start up again, but in the distance, so I don't worry about it too much. It's not like there are cows or single-wides in the neighborhood to go flying past me, right?
Since the really pounding rain seems to come in waves, I spend time sitting in the car once I get to Church Hill, waiting for the rain to slacken enough to make a break for it. Even with flowered boots and a raincoat, I'm a little soggy on arrival.
Taking a seat at the bar, I find that most of the people around me are neighbors who'd sought refuge once they heard a storm was coming. Apparently it's less common to hear the sirens and leave for another neighborhood like some of us had.
Meanwhile, a woman near me was seriously freaked out, not by the potential of wind and rain damage, but by a yellow egg that kept showing up in different places around her house without her or her husband moving it. First it was on the table, then on the windowsill, then inside a candle with a lid on it and this was causing her some genuine consternation. Floorboards creaking at night weren't helping, either.
Trying to reassure her, I explained that my parents' house has a ghost - they even know her name: Bertha - and they've all peacefully co-existed for 32 years. You can't let a little thing like paranormal activity weird you out.
Turns out she could.
Just about the time I'd decided what I wanted for dinner, the bartender showed up with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and a recitation of the specials, which naturally changed my order entirely.
A warm, wet night like this felt beachy, you know, wild and watery, just perfect for a fried trout sandwich with hot sauce and cole slaw, the piece of trout hanging off the seeded bun by about three inches on either side, jutting into the fries.
Just what you ought to be eating when you have damp hair and bare feet inside rubber boots.
Next to me, a woman who lived four blocks away worked on a cheeseburger while we discussed the dining scene and how glad she was to have bought a house in Church Hill five years ago.
I still say it's too disconnected for my taste - I want to be able to walk most anywhere I might want to go - but I know plenty of people who like that about it.
Fish gone, I told the bartender I wanted dessert and he knew what I wanted without asking, or at least made the right guess. Trying to resist chocolate pudding with orange zest was futile, so I didn't.
"Wine and chocolate, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?" he inquired with a grin.
Actually, I hope it does.
Friday, February 19, 2016
Longhorns and Trust Falls
Don't bother taking the first man that's offered to you in the morning.
Walking down Grace Street at the ungodly hour of 9:15, a woman heads toward me with an obvious gray cloud over her head.
"You want a boyfriend?" she asks, clearly seething. "You can have mine!" I'm inclined to say no but that fact is confirmed when I see a guy walking down the middle of the street in her direction.
"How can you hit a tree?" she hollers just before spotting her car. "Thomas!"
"What?" he asks innocently. "I didn't see the tree!"
"How can you not see a tree? Thomaaaaaas!" she wails.
I walk faster in the opposite direction, passing a guy who says, "Good morning, pretty girl!" and making me forget all about the drama behind me.
Arriving at the Virginia Historical Society for the preview of "The Art of Seating: 200 Years of American Design," I mingle, check out the colonial flag collection and eat a mini-doughnut before following the president into the galleries to see the show.
You might be surprised at how well 43 chairs can chronicle the evolution of American taste, but you wouldn't be if you saw this exhibit.
From the simplicity of a Shaker rocking chair with a lovely blue and tan checkerboard seat to an elaborate throne-like chair on casters designed in 1854 for representatives to sit in inside the House of Representatives grand, formal hall, these chairs all tell a story.
And like architecture, they can reflect the styles - Gothic Revival, Egyptian Revival, Colonial Revival - popular at the time or the image of the place they were created. An 1890 chair from Texas incorporates both longhorns, ivory and Tiffany ball casters in a strikingly "Western" style chair, while a Southern Appalachian chair is evocatively made of willow branches.
Even office chairs dazzled, such as the Frank Lloyd wright chair designed for the Johnson Wax Company that echoes the rest of the building's design and color scheme.
Things got groovy in the back gallery once we got to the post-WW I era, with chairs in Lucite, plywood and patterned fiberglass. Eero Saarinen's Grasshopper American chair was beautifully sculptural and, unlike so many earlier chairs, actually looked quite comfortable.
I couldn't have been more surprised to see Frank Gehry's compressed cardboard high stool, mainly because I remember seeing all his cardboard furniture for sale at Bloomingdale's back in the '80s. What a fool I was not to buy one.
You could almost feel the good vibrations from Jon Brooks' 1970 solid elm ball chair carved from a massive piece of elm, complete with cracks and highly polished surface. It looked like the kind of thing created at a commune while listening to Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers" album and smoking pot with a couple of hippie chicks breastfeeding their babies on a blanket.
That's what I mean about the exhibit coming across like a cultural history lesson (only way more enjoyable). As society eased up on rules, even chairs morphed into something more comfortable, more colorful and more likely to show up in the everyday person's home and not just the well-off.
Richmond, we keep getting cooler. This is just the kind of show that people from D.C. are going to drive down to see because of its uniqueness and hip factor. These are some amazingly cool chairs.
When I left the Historical Society, I took a meandering walk, part of which took me down Broad Street and past Assado, where their sign read, "Taco fact #1: Tacos are healthier than crystal meth."
Certain that would bring in lots of business, I was equally impressed with Rumors Boutique's sign, reading, "How do snakes know who their real friends are if they can't do trust falls?"
That's a one-two punch of sign wisdom you don't see just every day.
My walk eventually deposited me at the handsome new VCU Cabell Library where a friend who works there had offered me a tour. Having only been inside the auditorium, why wouldn't I want to see what years of construction had wrought?
Holy, moley, Batman, this is a library like none you've ever seen before.
The now-shuttered Anderson Gallery's collection lives here now and piece by piece, some of it is being installed on the walls. A couple of sublime Theresa Pollaks here, a six-panel Gerry Donato there, it's a who's who of the talent that taught at VCU.
Views like you can't imagine (unless, perhaps, you lived in the Prestwould) provide a bird's eye view of the top of the Cathedral, the rooftop garden and wind turbine on top of the Pollak Building and the sweep of the Compass (sadly, Bad Hackysack Guy was nowhere to be seen).
A terrace on the third floor seemed like the ultimate library destination until I saw the reading porch full of rockers with - wait for it - windows that open and sun streaming in them. Be still, my heart.
White boards were everywhere, even on that porch, because apparently today's students use them like we used to use notebooks and scrap paper. "We can't have enough white boards," my library friend shared.
Everywhere we went, students were sprawled out, some asleep, many checking their phones, some companionably studying in small groups but not interacting (this is called "parallel play" when you're talking about toddlers), and, another favorite, the silent floor, where it truly sounded like the libraries of my youth.
For me, the Innovative Media Center might as well have been from a sci-fi movie, with laser printers where my friend informed me a med student could create a replica of a human heart while an art student made a shirt sleeve out of LED lights.
There were sewing machines, record players so students could digitize their vinyl collection and, yes, even a gaming room. Most adorable was a curio cabinet of things known only to students' parents and fans of history: slide carousels, film projectors, ViewMasters. All the stuff the AV geeks used to live for, now locked up in a museum-like display.
But that's because this library is geared to a different generation, one that had to get the hang of revolving doors on the new entrance and liked being asked to test out various chair styles and vote on their favorite before final decisions were made. One that is the reason why the library Starbucks is in the top four in the entire country.
And to think we used to go to the library solely to look for books. How hopelessly old-fashioned.
Afterwards, we strolled over to 821 Cafe for lunch - I had black bean nachos because they're healthier than crystal meth while she chose the most fattening sandwich she could conceive of, according to her - and some non-library conversation, finishing out for me a full but fabulous Friday around the city.
You know, just checking out the excellent new chair exhibit and VCU's impressive LEED-certified library, no big deal.
And, no, I don't want Thomas or any man who can't see a tree, or even the forest for it. Thanks, anyway.
Walking down Grace Street at the ungodly hour of 9:15, a woman heads toward me with an obvious gray cloud over her head.
"You want a boyfriend?" she asks, clearly seething. "You can have mine!" I'm inclined to say no but that fact is confirmed when I see a guy walking down the middle of the street in her direction.
"How can you hit a tree?" she hollers just before spotting her car. "Thomas!"
"What?" he asks innocently. "I didn't see the tree!"
"How can you not see a tree? Thomaaaaaas!" she wails.
I walk faster in the opposite direction, passing a guy who says, "Good morning, pretty girl!" and making me forget all about the drama behind me.
Arriving at the Virginia Historical Society for the preview of "The Art of Seating: 200 Years of American Design," I mingle, check out the colonial flag collection and eat a mini-doughnut before following the president into the galleries to see the show.
You might be surprised at how well 43 chairs can chronicle the evolution of American taste, but you wouldn't be if you saw this exhibit.
From the simplicity of a Shaker rocking chair with a lovely blue and tan checkerboard seat to an elaborate throne-like chair on casters designed in 1854 for representatives to sit in inside the House of Representatives grand, formal hall, these chairs all tell a story.
And like architecture, they can reflect the styles - Gothic Revival, Egyptian Revival, Colonial Revival - popular at the time or the image of the place they were created. An 1890 chair from Texas incorporates both longhorns, ivory and Tiffany ball casters in a strikingly "Western" style chair, while a Southern Appalachian chair is evocatively made of willow branches.
Even office chairs dazzled, such as the Frank Lloyd wright chair designed for the Johnson Wax Company that echoes the rest of the building's design and color scheme.
Things got groovy in the back gallery once we got to the post-WW I era, with chairs in Lucite, plywood and patterned fiberglass. Eero Saarinen's Grasshopper American chair was beautifully sculptural and, unlike so many earlier chairs, actually looked quite comfortable.
I couldn't have been more surprised to see Frank Gehry's compressed cardboard high stool, mainly because I remember seeing all his cardboard furniture for sale at Bloomingdale's back in the '80s. What a fool I was not to buy one.
You could almost feel the good vibrations from Jon Brooks' 1970 solid elm ball chair carved from a massive piece of elm, complete with cracks and highly polished surface. It looked like the kind of thing created at a commune while listening to Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers" album and smoking pot with a couple of hippie chicks breastfeeding their babies on a blanket.
That's what I mean about the exhibit coming across like a cultural history lesson (only way more enjoyable). As society eased up on rules, even chairs morphed into something more comfortable, more colorful and more likely to show up in the everyday person's home and not just the well-off.
Richmond, we keep getting cooler. This is just the kind of show that people from D.C. are going to drive down to see because of its uniqueness and hip factor. These are some amazingly cool chairs.
When I left the Historical Society, I took a meandering walk, part of which took me down Broad Street and past Assado, where their sign read, "Taco fact #1: Tacos are healthier than crystal meth."
Certain that would bring in lots of business, I was equally impressed with Rumors Boutique's sign, reading, "How do snakes know who their real friends are if they can't do trust falls?"
That's a one-two punch of sign wisdom you don't see just every day.
My walk eventually deposited me at the handsome new VCU Cabell Library where a friend who works there had offered me a tour. Having only been inside the auditorium, why wouldn't I want to see what years of construction had wrought?
Holy, moley, Batman, this is a library like none you've ever seen before.
The now-shuttered Anderson Gallery's collection lives here now and piece by piece, some of it is being installed on the walls. A couple of sublime Theresa Pollaks here, a six-panel Gerry Donato there, it's a who's who of the talent that taught at VCU.
Views like you can't imagine (unless, perhaps, you lived in the Prestwould) provide a bird's eye view of the top of the Cathedral, the rooftop garden and wind turbine on top of the Pollak Building and the sweep of the Compass (sadly, Bad Hackysack Guy was nowhere to be seen).
A terrace on the third floor seemed like the ultimate library destination until I saw the reading porch full of rockers with - wait for it - windows that open and sun streaming in them. Be still, my heart.
White boards were everywhere, even on that porch, because apparently today's students use them like we used to use notebooks and scrap paper. "We can't have enough white boards," my library friend shared.
Everywhere we went, students were sprawled out, some asleep, many checking their phones, some companionably studying in small groups but not interacting (this is called "parallel play" when you're talking about toddlers), and, another favorite, the silent floor, where it truly sounded like the libraries of my youth.
For me, the Innovative Media Center might as well have been from a sci-fi movie, with laser printers where my friend informed me a med student could create a replica of a human heart while an art student made a shirt sleeve out of LED lights.
There were sewing machines, record players so students could digitize their vinyl collection and, yes, even a gaming room. Most adorable was a curio cabinet of things known only to students' parents and fans of history: slide carousels, film projectors, ViewMasters. All the stuff the AV geeks used to live for, now locked up in a museum-like display.
But that's because this library is geared to a different generation, one that had to get the hang of revolving doors on the new entrance and liked being asked to test out various chair styles and vote on their favorite before final decisions were made. One that is the reason why the library Starbucks is in the top four in the entire country.
And to think we used to go to the library solely to look for books. How hopelessly old-fashioned.
Afterwards, we strolled over to 821 Cafe for lunch - I had black bean nachos because they're healthier than crystal meth while she chose the most fattening sandwich she could conceive of, according to her - and some non-library conversation, finishing out for me a full but fabulous Friday around the city.
You know, just checking out the excellent new chair exhibit and VCU's impressive LEED-certified library, no big deal.
And, no, I don't want Thomas or any man who can't see a tree, or even the forest for it. Thanks, anyway.
Friday, February 5, 2016
It Only Hurts When I Kiss
I can brag if I want to.
Evening found me back at VCU Cabell Library for the second night in a row to hear comic artist Keith Knight talk on the subject of "They Shoot Black People, Don't They?" (did anyone under 40 get the reference?) but before he even took the stage, my entertainment was the people around me and there were lots of them. The lecture was packed.
"I realize that I become an artist between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.," the student behind me told his friends in all seriousness. "I write myself notes but when I look at 'em the next day, I realize they'd take too long to execute so I don't bother."
In other words, being an artist is haaaard.
The clutch of students on the other side were grilling a girl with multiple piercings. "Doesn't that one hurt when you get kissed?" a boy who sounded like he wanted to kiss her asked. "It's just, like, pressure," she answered. "But that one hurt the most to get." Nods and murmurs of empathy.
The guy in front of me, not a student, suddenly began thrashing around, looking under his chair, in his coat pockets, everywhere. "I can't find my phone!" I watched as he checked under chairs within a six foot radius, all the while looking desperate.
"I hate that so much of our lives are in these little devices," he said, looking at me for affirmation.
Not for me, I don't have one, I told him. "Don't brag!" he commanded, sort of smiling. Or was that just what jealousy looks like?
Tonight's speaker, Keith Knight, took the podium looking as hip as you'd expect an ex-San Franciscan to look and announcing that he'd discovered Sally Bell's all by himself this afternoon, enjoying a cupcake. "I just found it!" he said, clearly marveling at his luck. "Okay, if I've won all those awards he just mentioned, how come you haven't heard of me?"
It was a damn good question once he began talking and sharing his work. Like one about the benefits of black men having a male blow-up doll.
Five black men standing on a corner = a gang. Five black men standing on a corner with a white blow-up doll = basketball team and coach. That sort of commentary.
Or one called, "If signs told the truth" with a picture of a Denny's sign with the sub-head, "Serving blacks since 1997," sadly a fact brought about by a D.C. Denny's that refused to serve black Secret Service agents. In 1997.
Washington is my hometown. Are you kidding me?
His single-panel comics were as sharp and funny, just pithier. A TV screen announces that they have a picture of the man who's been terrorizing downtown. The brown guy thinks, "Please don't let him be Middle Eastern" and the black guy thinks, "Please don't let him be black" and the white guy thinks, "Ha, ha, they'll never catch me."
Funny and tragic at the same time.
Interesting as it was to see examples of his 20 years of artistry, the most compelling part of his talk was his plea for the races to really talk. "We need to talk about race until whites get uncomfortable so we can get beyond it."
Despite his geeky, mild-mannered persona, even he has been stopped by police. He was on Fulton Street in San Francisco, hanging posters with a staple gun for his band's upcoming show when he was surrounded by police who claimed to be on the lookout for a 6' black male robber.
A white friend of his happened to be riding by on the bus and noticed that his friend was surrounded by cops, so he jumped off the bus and charged the scene, hoping to clear his friend. Did the cops react to a white guy running at them the way they had to a black guy using a stapler? They did not. "That's white privilege," Knight said. "It's time for whites to start using their white privilege for good."
Another comic read, "All Lives Matter* (*restrictions apply, see skin color for details).
"You can't just be non-racist anymore, you've got to be actively anti-racist," Knight implored.
He talked for almost two hours, showing comics, telling stories and, like Reverend Campbell earlier in the day at the Historical Society, reminding people that right now is our Civil Rights movement and if we don't participate, history will be worse for it.
Impressive as the new library's third floor terraces and kitchen facilities are, it's already apparent that the level of programming they're bringing in is the real game-changer. I can't wait to see what's next.
My plan had been to go to Black Iris' opening afterwards, but the talk had gone long and I wasn't sure it was still happening. Of course, that didn't stop me from walking over there from campus, where I found a room buzzing with familiar faces to see Mickael Broth's "La Voie Sacree," a meditation on a World War I battle in Verdun, France and the supply line (la voie sacree) to that embattled town.
I knew of Broth from his wizard mural at the bus depot, but I hadn't known that he'd come to Richmond to be a graffiti artist, only to be arrested and jailed for ten months as a result of it.
Much of the work in this show was shiny and colorful and, at first glance kind of abstract, but looking more closely revealed elements of the war and how it shattered lives and perceptions. Buildings crumble, artillery flies through the air and, of course, being WW I, noxious clouds of gas hang over it all. A large scale sculptural installation in the back further drew the viewer in.
A friend suggested that the exhibit would be an excellent choice for a French museum devoted to that era. Another, whom I'd seen two of the past three nights at events, talked about similar sculptural work by a local puppet maker. I ran into a comic artist/VCU prof who had also been at the Keith Knight talk and been as blown away as I was. I chatted with the artist who's now 25 months sober about how much great stuff is happening this weekend alone.
When they finally threw us out, I walked down the block to Maple and Pine to join the Man About Town for a drink. So much walking in the cold, damp night air had me asking for a cup of tea and our bartender obliged with Quirk's special lavender blend, a tea that smelled more feminine than I do (not the tea's fault) and the ideal antidote for my cold insides.
Meanwhile, the MAT regaled me with stories of his current acting job as Ben Franklin for a FOX series ("That's right, Bill O'Reilly is signing my paycheck!"), a gig that's had him on set off and on since September. He even pulled out photos to show me how they've aged him from a younger man to an 81-year old.
All around us, Maple and Pine was hopping, with tables full of revelers and hotel guests (who was that handsome guy at the bar?) bustling throughout the restaurant and lobby. Being a late night type, I love how lively that space stays long after other places flag.
Not that I have pictures to prove it because, well, I have no cell phone and not because I misplaced it.
And, yes, that's bragging.
Evening found me back at VCU Cabell Library for the second night in a row to hear comic artist Keith Knight talk on the subject of "They Shoot Black People, Don't They?" (did anyone under 40 get the reference?) but before he even took the stage, my entertainment was the people around me and there were lots of them. The lecture was packed.
"I realize that I become an artist between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.," the student behind me told his friends in all seriousness. "I write myself notes but when I look at 'em the next day, I realize they'd take too long to execute so I don't bother."
In other words, being an artist is haaaard.
The clutch of students on the other side were grilling a girl with multiple piercings. "Doesn't that one hurt when you get kissed?" a boy who sounded like he wanted to kiss her asked. "It's just, like, pressure," she answered. "But that one hurt the most to get." Nods and murmurs of empathy.
The guy in front of me, not a student, suddenly began thrashing around, looking under his chair, in his coat pockets, everywhere. "I can't find my phone!" I watched as he checked under chairs within a six foot radius, all the while looking desperate.
"I hate that so much of our lives are in these little devices," he said, looking at me for affirmation.
Not for me, I don't have one, I told him. "Don't brag!" he commanded, sort of smiling. Or was that just what jealousy looks like?
Tonight's speaker, Keith Knight, took the podium looking as hip as you'd expect an ex-San Franciscan to look and announcing that he'd discovered Sally Bell's all by himself this afternoon, enjoying a cupcake. "I just found it!" he said, clearly marveling at his luck. "Okay, if I've won all those awards he just mentioned, how come you haven't heard of me?"
It was a damn good question once he began talking and sharing his work. Like one about the benefits of black men having a male blow-up doll.
Five black men standing on a corner = a gang. Five black men standing on a corner with a white blow-up doll = basketball team and coach. That sort of commentary.
Or one called, "If signs told the truth" with a picture of a Denny's sign with the sub-head, "Serving blacks since 1997," sadly a fact brought about by a D.C. Denny's that refused to serve black Secret Service agents. In 1997.
Washington is my hometown. Are you kidding me?
His single-panel comics were as sharp and funny, just pithier. A TV screen announces that they have a picture of the man who's been terrorizing downtown. The brown guy thinks, "Please don't let him be Middle Eastern" and the black guy thinks, "Please don't let him be black" and the white guy thinks, "Ha, ha, they'll never catch me."
Funny and tragic at the same time.
Interesting as it was to see examples of his 20 years of artistry, the most compelling part of his talk was his plea for the races to really talk. "We need to talk about race until whites get uncomfortable so we can get beyond it."
Despite his geeky, mild-mannered persona, even he has been stopped by police. He was on Fulton Street in San Francisco, hanging posters with a staple gun for his band's upcoming show when he was surrounded by police who claimed to be on the lookout for a 6' black male robber.
A white friend of his happened to be riding by on the bus and noticed that his friend was surrounded by cops, so he jumped off the bus and charged the scene, hoping to clear his friend. Did the cops react to a white guy running at them the way they had to a black guy using a stapler? They did not. "That's white privilege," Knight said. "It's time for whites to start using their white privilege for good."
Another comic read, "All Lives Matter* (*restrictions apply, see skin color for details).
"You can't just be non-racist anymore, you've got to be actively anti-racist," Knight implored.
He talked for almost two hours, showing comics, telling stories and, like Reverend Campbell earlier in the day at the Historical Society, reminding people that right now is our Civil Rights movement and if we don't participate, history will be worse for it.
Impressive as the new library's third floor terraces and kitchen facilities are, it's already apparent that the level of programming they're bringing in is the real game-changer. I can't wait to see what's next.
My plan had been to go to Black Iris' opening afterwards, but the talk had gone long and I wasn't sure it was still happening. Of course, that didn't stop me from walking over there from campus, where I found a room buzzing with familiar faces to see Mickael Broth's "La Voie Sacree," a meditation on a World War I battle in Verdun, France and the supply line (la voie sacree) to that embattled town.
I knew of Broth from his wizard mural at the bus depot, but I hadn't known that he'd come to Richmond to be a graffiti artist, only to be arrested and jailed for ten months as a result of it.
Much of the work in this show was shiny and colorful and, at first glance kind of abstract, but looking more closely revealed elements of the war and how it shattered lives and perceptions. Buildings crumble, artillery flies through the air and, of course, being WW I, noxious clouds of gas hang over it all. A large scale sculptural installation in the back further drew the viewer in.
A friend suggested that the exhibit would be an excellent choice for a French museum devoted to that era. Another, whom I'd seen two of the past three nights at events, talked about similar sculptural work by a local puppet maker. I ran into a comic artist/VCU prof who had also been at the Keith Knight talk and been as blown away as I was. I chatted with the artist who's now 25 months sober about how much great stuff is happening this weekend alone.
When they finally threw us out, I walked down the block to Maple and Pine to join the Man About Town for a drink. So much walking in the cold, damp night air had me asking for a cup of tea and our bartender obliged with Quirk's special lavender blend, a tea that smelled more feminine than I do (not the tea's fault) and the ideal antidote for my cold insides.
Meanwhile, the MAT regaled me with stories of his current acting job as Ben Franklin for a FOX series ("That's right, Bill O'Reilly is signing my paycheck!"), a gig that's had him on set off and on since September. He even pulled out photos to show me how they've aged him from a younger man to an 81-year old.
All around us, Maple and Pine was hopping, with tables full of revelers and hotel guests (who was that handsome guy at the bar?) bustling throughout the restaurant and lobby. Being a late night type, I love how lively that space stays long after other places flag.
Not that I have pictures to prove it because, well, I have no cell phone and not because I misplaced it.
And, yes, that's bragging.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
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!
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!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
A Fine Romance
According to Pandora, I'm obsessed with minor key tonality. And I'm okay with that.
What I didn't realize until I went to VCU's Cabell Library today to see the exhibit, "A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters, American Songs" was that minor key melodies are considered unmistakably Jewish.
The traveling exhibit was about the contributions of Jewish songwriters to what became known as the Great American Songbook.
A monument to the idea of American romance, so to speak.
Guys like Harold Arlen ("the Negro-est white man" Ethel Waters said she ever met), Jerome Kern (who wrote that ultimate romantic song "The Way You Look Tonight"), Irving Berlin (derided by some for having the audacity as a Jew to write "God Bless America") and George Gershwin ("The Man I Love," 'nuff said).
The show was an interesting assemblage of pictures, sheet music, and lots of information about the era 1910-65 when songs like that were being written non-stop.
And for a lyric lover like me, learning that a hallmark of this music was the the cleverness and wit of the words only made it better.
I don't want you
But I'd hate to lose you
But it was something more; the songs fused ardor and resignation into sublime ambivalence.
I wandered around and finally found the somebody who
Could make me be true and could make me be blue
And even be glad just to be sad, thinking of you.
Melody genius and the perfect words. Now that's a fine romance.
Afterwards, my music-loving companion and I enjoyed a sunny walk over to Garnett's for happy hour and their fabulous $3 snack plates.
White bean hummus with avocado on crostini, apple slices with cheddar baked in phyllo dough and mayhaw jelly and bleu cheese on crostini made for the perfect post-romance snack.
The case was argued that even a snack requires a dessert course and since we'd finished the savory, it was time for the perfect accompaniment.
Like the friends who stopped in briefly for a piece, we indulged in the double chocolate cake.
We've just been introduced
I do not know you well
But when the music started
Something drew me to your side
So many men and girls
Are in each other's arms
It made me think we might be
Similarly occupied
Only a great American songwriter could make the polka so romantic. A Jewish songwriter, of course.
What I didn't realize until I went to VCU's Cabell Library today to see the exhibit, "A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters, American Songs" was that minor key melodies are considered unmistakably Jewish.
The traveling exhibit was about the contributions of Jewish songwriters to what became known as the Great American Songbook.
A monument to the idea of American romance, so to speak.
Guys like Harold Arlen ("the Negro-est white man" Ethel Waters said she ever met), Jerome Kern (who wrote that ultimate romantic song "The Way You Look Tonight"), Irving Berlin (derided by some for having the audacity as a Jew to write "God Bless America") and George Gershwin ("The Man I Love," 'nuff said).
The show was an interesting assemblage of pictures, sheet music, and lots of information about the era 1910-65 when songs like that were being written non-stop.
And for a lyric lover like me, learning that a hallmark of this music was the the cleverness and wit of the words only made it better.
I don't want you
But I'd hate to lose you
But it was something more; the songs fused ardor and resignation into sublime ambivalence.
I wandered around and finally found the somebody who
Could make me be true and could make me be blue
And even be glad just to be sad, thinking of you.
Melody genius and the perfect words. Now that's a fine romance.
Afterwards, my music-loving companion and I enjoyed a sunny walk over to Garnett's for happy hour and their fabulous $3 snack plates.
White bean hummus with avocado on crostini, apple slices with cheddar baked in phyllo dough and mayhaw jelly and bleu cheese on crostini made for the perfect post-romance snack.
The case was argued that even a snack requires a dessert course and since we'd finished the savory, it was time for the perfect accompaniment.
Like the friends who stopped in briefly for a piece, we indulged in the double chocolate cake.
We've just been introduced
I do not know you well
But when the music started
Something drew me to your side
So many men and girls
Are in each other's arms
It made me think we might be
Similarly occupied
Only a great American songwriter could make the polka so romantic. A Jewish songwriter, of course.
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