The Cat Who Won't Cop Out

If it wasn't one thing politics today, it was another blaxploitation in the '70s.

On my walk this morning, I saw a couple hammering a "Stoney for Mayor" sign into their pocket-sized lawn in the Fan and it was all I could do restrain myself from going over and demanding to know why they thought a man with such limited experience and tenure in town would be well-suited to running our city.

At the very least, I knew I'd have a sympathetic ear for the story later, when my plans were to meet up with an activist type to discuss all things mayoral before the VMFA screening of "Shaft" for the final night of the Gordon Parks mini-film fest.

Along the way, I spotted a dead raccoon laid out on Boulevard, with no cars parked anywhere near it, as if it had cooties or something.

Strolling down Floyd to get to Doner Kebab, I spied a yard with the right kind of political signs to give me all the feels, so I paused on the sidewalk to chat from a distance with the couple on the porch of the house, which just happened to be next to the one I lived in from 1993 through 2006.

It's a neighborhood I know well, even if it has become quite a bit more affluent since my early days there. Fortunately, funky still competes with renovated on block after block.

In a nutshell, the couple had been wowed by Balile's honesty and preparedness, could see why people were sucked in by Stoney's glibness, abhorred Morrissey and put up a Clinton/Kaine sign mainly to prove there's no shame in doing so.

I liked them immensely after 10 minutes conversation and discovering that her name was the same as mine.

A few houses down, I passed a raised garden bed from which sprouted the white legs of an upside down mannequin with black combat boots on its feet.

Ah, there's the Floyd Avenue that originally seduced me back in the '90s.

Naturally, the local political scene was all we talked about over Middle Eastern dance music and shawermas, mainly because there's so much at stake. As an unexpected bonus, the owner decided to throw his support behind Baliles while we were there, so perhaps we brought good vibes or something.

Walking into the museum afterward, the guard told me to enjoy my evening, and when I assured him I would because I was coming to see "Shaft," his face lit up and then fell. "That's playing tonight?" he asked. "And I gotta work."

We agreed it was a shame for him.

Downstairs, my dining companion and I met up to find good seats for the 1971 film and got to talking about that era when he'd been a conscientious objector assigned to work on LBJ's War on Poverty in Kentucky.

This is why you see a period film with someone who lived through the period.

During the introduction, we learned that "Shaft" was considered revolutionary both in terms of its cinematic role and its cultural role, not to mention the Isaac Hayes soundtrack that won the Oscar that year.

Told we were seeing the unedited version, we were both curious how it would stack up against current movies in terms of violence, language and sex.

And I've got to say that those first few distinctive notes of the "Theme from Shaft" (and the full soundtrack version, not the radio edit) along with shots of John Shaft moving through Manhattan (past Corvairs and picketers carrying signs reading, "I got my job through the New York Times") set the tone for a total immersion into the early days of black power.

It was a far cry from director Gordon Parks's debut film, "The Learning Tree," which I'd seen last night, despite there being only two years between the films. That had been a soft-lens focus look back at a difficult coming of age story where "Shaft" was all manhood.

And don't get me started on Richard Roundtree's dimple or the superb way that man wore a turtleneck.

It warms my black heart to see you so concerned about us minority folk.

But, man, was it ever a reminder of what another lifetime 1971 was. Hotels with telephone switchboards behind the front desk. Vegetable vendors with their products in wooden carts with metal wheels. A bag of hot chestnuts for two bits. A poster on a boarded up wall for an upcoming Four Tops show. "Wop" insults hurled with abandon.

Taxi drivers who refused to stop for black passengers.

When you lead your revolution, whitey better be standing still because you don't run worth a damn no more.

Drug humor - "Billy, could you go turn on..." "Hey, man, I already turned on!" "No, no, turn on the lights?" was no surprise but sexuality openness was ("I'm gay"), although both spoke to the time, as did Shaft's bachelor pad, complete with shelves holding hardback books, a reel to reel player and a turntable.

A sex machine needs that stuff in order to play Isaac Hayes and Curtis Mayfield for any lady visitors. He apparently also needs to keep a spare pistol in a Baggie in the freezer, right next to the cans of Minute Maid orange juice every bachelor keeps around.

What did you get, Shaft? I got laid.

But my personal favorite was the sex scene, all soft focus and seen through a Calder mobile hanging above the white couch which provides such great contrast with Shaft's naked brown skin.

And while I knew intellectually that it was a blaxploitation movie, it came across more like a film noir with a black private dick in a fitted leather jacket. Suspenseful scenes were accompanied by Hayes' taut percussion and sometimes, the reddest fake blood you've ever seen.

After it ended, my companion and I couldn't wait to compare notes, starting with how even in its unedited form, it didn't come close to today's movie violence. Seems we've moved that needle so far in 45 years that a groundbreaking film like this just seems like business as usual with wide lapels. That brought up bell bottoms, which we hadn't seen a lot of in the movie.

Before I could even bring it up, he mentioned something I'd also noticed, namely the easily recognizable wallpaper ("I had that gray one in my house!" he tells me) and wall hangings (I had the green one in my first apartment) of that era. Bold, curved lines in dark and metallic colors had immediately taken me back to some of the hipper '70s homes I was in.

As we were leaving the museum, I paused to chat with the guard, telling him about all the '70s details, including Shaft's sound system.

"Reel to reels were the thing back then," he says, embracing the subject. "I still have mine and my turntable, but all my albums got warped."

Turns out he isn't the only reel to reel holdout because the activist still maintains two himself: one to play and the other to use for spare parts as needed. Come on, it sounds so good.

As Shaft would say, you're damn right. Relics that we are, we can dig it.

Enthusiasm is the Electricity of Life

The dichotomy of Richmond, that's what all those national publications fail to mention when they're singing our praises.

It's living in a town where a terrific and historic photography show such as "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" results in a mini-Gordon Parks film festival, for which I immediately buy tickets.

But it's also arriving at the VMFA to find the misguided Sons of the Confederacy with their enormous Confederate flags standing on the corner in front of the museum as part of their endless protesting about the lost cause.

My first thought is what an unpleasant welcome they'll make for any black museum or film-goers, but it turns out they're just as unpleasant for me. Walking by three flag bearing, redneck-looking men to get to the steps, one looks me up and down, gives me a smarmy grin and says, "Hey, there, hot stuff" as if I might actually respond to him.

Negative.

It occurs to me that if all those national articles praising Richmond as a rising star and a shining example of the hip "new south" were to also mention this sort of nonsense, it might make for a far more realistic sense of this town.

Because, truthfully, it is all part of the flavor and color of who we are.

Inside the Cheek auditorium, I overhear some women behind me talking. One regrets not having read Parks' book "The Learning Tree" before seeing the film tonight. Another explains a friend's absence, saying she'll probably just watch the movie on Netflix.

The woman next to me shares that she's here because she'd read the book back in middle school and had just recently learned there was a film based on it. I'm amazed, but also older than she is, because I was certainly never assigned a black-penned book at that age.

The film is introduced as being the work of Renaissance man Parks, who not only wrote the screenplay, but directed, produced and wrote the music for it. Turns out it was also exceedingly difficult to locate, meaning that not seeing it tonight likely means not seeing it at all.

Shot on location in Fort Scott, the movie was the first by a black director in Hollywood, which makes me suddenly aware of how much was riding on what Parks did and how he did it with this film.

From the opening frame, the film was as gloriously Technicolor as you'd expect a major film to be in 1969. What I had a harder time reconciling was that although the film was set in the 1920s - straw boaters on the men's heads, candlestick phones - the women's clothing was pure late '60s with mini-dresses, low slung belts and knee socks.

Just as of the era was the young love montage, complete with teens feeding ducks and running hand in hand through sun-dappled fields in slow motion. Shades of Love's Baby Soft product commercials, for those who recall such things.

Judging by the fact that some people left during the screening, I'm guessing that they couldn't appreciate the particular nature of 1969 pacing, not to mention the overt sentimentality of how the story was told. To them I would say, consider what was at stake for the first black director's film.

Rather than join the curator-led gallery walk of the Parks exhibit afterward - in my own defense, I have seen it twice so far - I met my date in the atrium so we could scuttle upstairs for a glass of J. Mourat Rose before Amuse closed.

From there, we wandered over to Belmont Food Shop, running into my favorite mayoral candidate as we navigated a traffic circle on foot. "Stop writing nice things about me!" he joked.

Stop sharing my opinion? Never!

Although we were late arrivals, we were welcomed in to the fold of lingering diners and staff for dinner at the end of the bar while the usual '20s-era music played.

Continuing the evening's wine theme with a bottle of J. Mourat Rose, we began with gougeres and gizzard confit, followed by the bounty of the sea: crab and avocado, rare slices of tuna over frisee and seared scallops over squash and sausage.

When the chef finished up, he came out and joined us, providing an opportunity for me thank him for the surprise confit.

"My biggest stress in life is not enough duck fat," he explains semi-seriously.

It was while we were enjoying a fabulous butterscotch custard that a gentleman at the end of the bar brought out a 1989 bottle of wine for decanting, which the barkeep's research showed was one of only 13 left around.

Turning to those around him as the wine was poured into glasses for everyone in the room, the chef observed with a grin, "This is how we roll at Belmont Food Shop."

A deep garnet color, the nose on the Chateau Prieure-Lichine was earthy and full of dark fruit flavors, but its real beauty was with time, as the longer we sat, swirled and sipped, the more impressive the wine became.

That we'd accidentally happened into the generosity of a stranger only added to the pleasure of the wine. That such things happen as often as they do only adds to the running list of what's so wonderful about Richmond.

If I were writing those articles about our city, I'd mention such intimate attractions right along with the flamboyant flag wavers.

Because for better or for worse, all of it represents how we roll in Richmond.

Waiting for a Pass on a Train

I go out thinking I'm having a ladies-who-lunch kind of a day.

You know, the kind of day where one woman drops an evocative bon mot such as, "All I know is he made a pass at her on a train," except it winds up being so much more than a girly lunch of salads and chocolate at Chez Foushee followed by a matinee.

First of all, how is it that I'd never seen the musical "1776"?

When I casually mentioned it last night, I was rewarded with a lyric sung to me from one of its songs and the intel that he who was serenading me once owned the soundtrack.

Even my date today, the former theater queen, knew little, asking me when she arrived if the play had been written in 1976, during that drawn-out Bicentennial celebration some of us lived through.

But, no, a bit of quick research revealed that it had been inexplicably written in 1969, the year of Woodstock and during the dark days of Vietnam.

That something so potentially corny and old-fashioned for the time went on to win three Tony awards only increased my amazement at knowing nothing about it.

All I can say is I'm wholly indebted to Virginia Repertory for choosing to stage such a compelling and informative piece of theater with a top-notch cast to bring me up to speed.

After three decades in the Commonwealth, my delight in all the Virginia references was immense.

So when the simple Richard Henry Lee says, "Why, hell! I'll leave right now if you like! I'll just stop off in Stratford long enough to refresh the missus and then straight to the matter," I have no problem conjuring up Stratford Hall, where we celebrated my mother's birthday a few years back.

"Refreshing the missus," now there's a phrase you don't hear often enough.

And when Benjamin Franklin, played masterfully by Jason Marks, explains away Lee's exuberance by saying, "They're a warm-blooded people, Virginians," it's laugh-out-loud funny to me.

Summing up how the British empire has stifled the colonists' spirit, Franklin's words, while straight out of 1969, could describe a whole lot of people at political rallies of today: "We've spawned a new race here, Mr. Dickinson. Rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising, less refined."

Just as of the eras - both the mid 1770s as well as the late '60s, that is - is John Adams (played to passionate and playful perfection by the inimitable Scott Wichmann) whose Puritanical roots blush to their core when he discovers that Jefferson intends to bed his wife before so much as writing the first word of the Declaration of Independence.

"Good god, you don't mean...they're not going to?...in the middle of the afternoon?" to which Franklin dryly informs him, "Not  everybody's from Boston, John."

Oh, and, by the way, they're a warm-blooded people, Virginians, so let's hear it for afternoon delight, shall we?

Looking exceptionally dandy in brocade and lace, Alexander Sapp as South Carolina's Edward Rutledge delivered a master class in staying in character, his pinky always elevated, his eyebrow conveying disdain, even the motion of sitting down repeatedly executed with the impeccable grace of a gentleman.

As far as the music went, his defense of slavery, "Molasses to Rum" was a show-stopper while it was tough to resist the charm of "The Lees of Old Virginia" - The FFV, the first family, in the sovereign colony of Virginia. And may my wife refuse my bed, if I can't deliver, as I said, the resolution on independency - as much for the mocking of Virginia pride as for the '60s emphasis on sex.

But easily the most currently topical song was "Cool, Cool Considerate Men" - We have land, cash in hand, self-command, future planned, Fortune flies, society survives, in neatly ordered lives with well-endowed wives - about the southern delegates' determination to move ever to the right, never to the left, because they won't risk losing the white male dominated way of life they've established.

Pshaw, such blind partisanship is both not cool and inconsiderate.

Truth be told, my main takeaway from the production was mortification at how little I knew (remembered?) about the Second Continental Congress and how central to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence John Adams was.

This is a revolution, dammit! We're going to have to offend SOMEbody!"

Ah, but Mr. Adams, we're still offending people. We could hardly help it given how much rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising and less refined we are.

Since 1776, forging ahead and in bed, it's practically the American way.

Get on the Bus

Some people get it and some people don't.

I rearranged my plans so I wouldn't miss any of tonight's "Create the Vote: A Mayoral Forum on Tapping RVA's Creative Culture," not because I hadn't just seen a mayoral forum less than two weeks ago (I had) but because the issue of growing Richmond's creative culture worries me.

You can be sure I don't want to hear candidates talking about making us over into the next Austin or Portland or, inexplicably, New Orleans, not because there's anything wrong with those places but because the thought of Richmond becoming like any of them depresses me.

When moderator Michael Paul Williams asked the six-person panel of Baliles, Berry, Junes, Morrissey, Stoney and Williams, "What's it going to take to get us to the next level?" the all-important answer came from a familiar voice in the audience.

"We are there!" community activist and musician Laney Sullivan called out, putting into words exactly what I had been thinking.

Granted, our schools aren't there and we'd do future generations a real service if we could finally fix them and put into place more art-based cirriculums to ensure that creativity is encouraged from childhood.

But the creativity of our scene, to my way of thinking, needs no self-aggrandizement, no grand scale advertising campaign, no push to have more branded events.

That's not who Richmond is and I pray (despite being a card-carrying heathen) that it's not what future mayors plan to wrestle our offbeat little DIY city into becoming.

Sorry, Jack Berry, but we're not a South by Southwest kind of a town and calling local arts groups "avant garde" makes you sound like Grandpa shaking his fist at some new-fangled sprinkler.

Tsk, task, Lawrence Williams, you haven't been inside the November Theater- a bastion of the local art scene - since you were 3 years old and it was still segregated?

And, really, Bobby Junes, it's not the folk concert but the Folk Fest you claimed to attend, albeit only on the non-rainy days of the event.

I'll admit I'm bothered, Levar Stoney, when you say that the mayor should be creative about bringing in money for the arts because I wonder if that means more backing from Dominion Power and others with questionable practices.

As for you, Joe Morrissey, I accept tonight's apology for your stupidity 27 years ago in voting against art you considered obscene at 1708 Gallery, but I can't accept a 57-year old man preying on a 17-year old employee.

What I can embrace is Jon Balile's statement that the creative community should be used to make city decisions. He's right because they are the people responsible for moving the scene forward and making Richmond the highly desirable place touted by everyone from the New York Times to USA Today.

The forum took place in front of the set for Virginia Repertory's production of "1776," providing a suitably political but, more importantly, creative backdrop for tonight's discussion. Even the timer sound that alerted candidates that they'd run on too long was a military-sounding drum roll.

Despite everything going off without a hitch, the format was deeply flawed.

Every question began at one end of the row of candidates or the other, meaning that Baliles and Williams had the unenviable task of answering two questions in a row every single time and not one of the other candidates - Berry, Junes, Morrissey and Stoney - ever had to be first out of the gate with their thoughts.

Is the audience as impressed with you when all you do is piggyback on your predecessors' answers? They are not.

I emphatically agree with Baliles that our homegrown creative spirit is what the city needs to get behind. While not quite as masterfully metaphoric as Prince's "Little Red Corvette," his comment drove the point home well. "The city needs to get out of the way and let the creative community drive the bus."

The funny part is, he had to be saying that for the benefit of audience members who aren't regularly involved in the local scene.

Because anyone who is participating knows that, in essence, the creatives have already been reshaping Richmond from the butt of jokes (How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb or, well, anything? A dozen: one to change the bulb and 11 to talk about how great the old bulb, or way of doing things, was) to a vibrant, inclusive scene that welcomes anyone wanting to be part of it.

Creatives of all kinds - artists, brewers, musicians, filmmakers, chefs, muralists, bartenders, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers - have been driving the bus for at least the past five or six years, whether the mainstream population was noticing or not.

I say that as someone who's not only been participating, but documenting the scene for 7 years Look back at my blog posts from 2009 or 2010 and you'll see a steady increase in the sheer number, much less the variety and quality, of offerings of every kind in Richmond.

All brought to life by passionate people who loved this city and wanted to contribute in a way that was meaningful to them and, as it turned out, to a whole lot more people they didn't even know.

Next level? We don't need no stinkin' next level when it comes to the creative community. We're there.

Wouldn't it be grand to elect Jon Baliles and have a mayor willing to gas up the bus and keep it in good repair so the real talent can continue driving it?

Hot Sauce Montage

Because what better way to spend an evening than watching blood, babes and bagels?

Because after seeing the impressive film stores of Universal, Columbia and the like on our road trip today, it's just as important to appreciate a film made by a company that produces and distributes disturbing small, independent films that mix a B film aesthetic with campy sex and violence.

Because it's Monday night, I'd never seen a Troma film and Gallery 5 is only four blocks away.

And, honestly, because no one complains when you eat chocolate pate with sterling silver forks out of a Tupperware sandwich box while waiting for the movie to begin.

Taking seats in the second row, a guy in the third comments that he sees me at Gallery 5 every time he comes. I explain the reasons for my frequency - proximity, variety of programming, going out 7 nights a week - and he gets it. Says all that applies to him.

"But why don't I see you at other venues?" he muses. We do the local list and sure, enough, we show up at the same venues, just apparently not on the same nights.

When I tell them that Mac agreed to come only after I explained that Troma was founded on the notion that anybody can make a movie, he and his friend agree that was the kicker for them as well.

But the bottom line is, we're all there to see "Hectic Knife," which is being introduced by both its director and star, the latter wearing the cheesy waist-length blond wig he'd worn in the 2013 flick.

They prepare us by saying that if we like the movie, we should go their merch table afterward, where they have DVDs, CDs and hot sauce, but not "gimmicky hot sauce," which makes me feel a whole lot better. If we hate it, we'll be allowed to use a knife to stab at a boxed DVD of the film.

No one could say that they weren't being given options.

The film opened with a dedication - "For Jammy. We miss you." - and a picture of a lizard. Actually, we saw that multiple times since the film didn't exactly fire off the first couple of times so bad jokes ensued.

But finally it did start in earnest and we were treated to an appealingly shot black and white film about a long-suffering, knife-spinning vigilante named Hectic Knife, who's tired of having to save the world.

Only problem is, the world won't let him sit it out.

I know you're not surprised that there's a bad guy - Piggly Doctor (looking a lot like a fresh-faced Andy Warhol and carrying a business card that labeled him "professional baddy") - who says things like, "I'm going to inject you with the drugs!" and then does it as a way of creating customers for his growing drug business.

Shooting up aside, mocking dated film tropes provided a lot of the B-movie appeal.

When our boy Hectic decides he needs a roommate, he begins putting up "Roommate wanted" signs all over town, including one that reads, "Roommate montage," for those paying attention.

When our hero travels, we see a globe on a stand spinning, with America (Hectic's embarkation point) and India (destination) both clearly labeled with signs taped to the globe.

When the locals get upset that Hectic isn't killing people for their safety, a series of spinning newspapers stop long enough to show us headlines about the situation.

Yea, we laughed out loud a lot.

Ditto when our superhero showed his soft side. "You are my friend, Harry," Hectic says with a whine. "I only have two of those."

Whereas his long-lost father tells a diner waitress to "F*ck off" when she asks if he wants a coffee refill, Hectic allows her to do her job. "Sometimes," he explains patiently to his Dad, "You just gotta let the bitch fill the cup."

I'm telling you, guys, there's a life lesson there.

And in a perfectly-timed tie-in to current events, Hectic's so-called girlfriend tells his roommate, "You room is a pussy magnet!"

Characters don't hesitate to bleed profusely and say things such as, "Great! I got stabbed to death with a knife!" creating next-level corny death scenes.

But we also see shades of Woody Allen - or maybe Seinfeld - minutiae when two old man characters fighting with bagels and arguing in a hallway get distracted by the fact that they both have on t-shirts with identical $4.99 price tags still on them.

How can grown men get lost in talk of t-shirts and shopping when they're supposed to be wiping the good guy off the face of the planet, you ask?

Because the goal with a Troma film is to make the film you want to make and if that includes mocking and/or paying homage to whatever pop culture caught your eye, so be it.

It may also be about going through as much fake blood as possible, but I don't have confirmation on that yet.

Still, I think Jammy would be proud.

Framing the Shot

In honor of Columbus - except without the wooden ships and the Queen's gold - we headed west for some exploration.

Our mountainous destination, Culpeper, may have been a tad less prosaic than setting sail for the New World, but it was just as novel in its own way (and involved no dysentery).

We'd managed to snag tickets to the first-ever Columbus Day open house at the Library of Congress' Packard Campus of the National Audiovisual Conservation Center, a film lover's paradise.

And, yes, the "Packard" part was David Packard of Hewlitt-Packard, who bought the building formerly owned by the Federal Reserve Bank of Richmond (who knew?) and donated it to the government, making it the second largest gift to them after the Smithsonian.

Maybe you're not impressed by all that, but we sure were.

Bunker-like and built into the side of a mountain with living rooves everywhere, the remodeled center was an impressive mixture of old - one foot thick concrete walls - and new - a glass-roof dining pavilion on the top floor with sunlight streaming in.

Set up on tables in the lobby where we had to go through metal detectors and put our bags through an X-ray machine, were examples of the kinds of things the Center spends its time preserving.

A 35 mm print of MJ's "Thriller," for example. A foreign language version of a VHS tape "Bon Jovi: Drumming Essentials." A 78 rpm shellac record.

One table held a basket of black and white strips of film, some from a 1923 Western and others from a 1912 slapstick comedy, all intended as bookmarks.

I chose slapstick, no surprise.

There were even a couple of Kinetoscopes with a bowl of pennies next to them. Put in a penny, turn the handle and Felix the Cat has a black and white adventure right before our eyes.

When our "reverse mullet" tour began, our guide led us from the "party in the front" lobby where a theater auditorium regularly shows classic movies on 35 mm (and even lends them out to worthy institutions such as MOMA) to the "business in the back" areas where the real preservation work gets accomplished.

Oh, and, by the way, it had the most delicious "new library" smell you can imagine.

Moving through the serpentine building, we passed hundreds of boxes containing film and paperwork about films, film canisters of varying shapes and sizes and scads of digital reproductions.

When we got upstairs to the extensive nitrate vaults, manager George, who was to talk to us about his job there, asked for a minute before he began. "I want to warm up my hands!" he told us.

No kidding. The vaults are kept at ridiculously low temperatures because nitrate film has the same chemical composition as gunpowder, so it ignites easily, hence the concrete walls between vaults housing the prime film stock of Columbia, Universal, Disney and other major studios.

From there, we saw the largest collection of sound recordings in the world, with wax cylinders waiting to be processed and bins on shelves labeled "Les Paul collection," "Gershwin Collection," and "Sandra Day O'Connor collection."

We saw sound recordings that looked like busted records ("All we can do is cry," our young guide said about the losses).

In the video lab, we saw where a robotic arm pulls 3/4-inch tapes, inserts them in a player and records them digitally. Humans are required only to load the machine.

Old players of every type- Beta, VHS, 1" and 2", you name it - are repaired weekly because they get so much use.

For that matter, old equipment, whether projectors, Kinetoscopes, players or Gramophones, and old movie posters (Hello, "Coneheads") are displayed throughout because, as our guide put it, "Why not?"

We finished up on the top floor, looking out over multi-level green rooves to mountains, massive silos and farmland against an azure sky.

"Greetings from Culpeper, Virginia...Get lost in the Blue Ridge foothills" the postcard I picked up today reads.

Gladly.

Heavier Things

A lovely day, a sobering reminder that there is still so much work to be done.

The weather sat squarely at the intersection of summer and fall: cloudless, brilliant blue sky, late afternoon sunshine to warm my bones and a stiff, changeable breeze that made an outer garment a necessity, at least for me while we were at the gazebo overlooking the river at Osbourne Boat Landing.

The meal leaned more toward summer than fall at Cochon on 2nd, with a salad of baby lettuces, roasted corn, bleu cheese and pickled onions followed by a hearty bowl of grilled prawns with corn, butter beans and tomatoes in a ham broth. Chocolate mousse pate is season-less.

The presidential debate, watched at Green Leafe Cafe with a noisy crowd, landed somewhere between the here and now and the past that every woman knows and wants put behind us.

"I moved on her like a bitch"? "Grab them by the pussy"? "You can do anything when you're a star"?

By the time we got home from Williamsburg, debate reaction was all over Facebook, as it should be given that a culture of "locker room talk" that makes light of sexual predation is of the utmost concern to far more than the half the population it diminishes.

An acquaintance posted tonight about being sexually assaulted in high school and then being bullied for reporting the football playing perpetrators to the school administration.

"Even if I had not had this horrible experience, I would still recoil when I hear the way Donald Trump speaks about women. We can NOT allow this narrative of locker room talk to be funneled any further to future generations."

Preach it, sister.

The sad part is, almost every woman has a story - or many - about the inappropriate things said and/or done to her simply because she was a female.

I was 12 the first time it happened to me - while I was babysitting - when the friend of the people I was sitting for unexpectedly came home early and alone, laying down on the couch where I was watching TV with his head in my lap. He began stroking my face, telling me how pretty I was and scaring me to death about what he was going to do next.

Thank goodness the couple came through the door shortly thereafter because I was not equipped to handle where the situation was going. Nor should I have been.

Flash forward to adulthood and my second day at a new job when one of the male employees came into the office and said, "You must be the new girl." I introduced myself, he did the same and then he smacked me squarely on the ass, complimenting its firmness as his hand left my backside.

Mind you, this was the early '90s and that was still legal workplace behavior.

Just a few years ago, I was at the Second Street Festival, part of a tightly-packed crowd watching a band when I was groped from behind. I turned and confronted the man and told him to leave me alone. He denied it and I moved further away from him. A few minutes later, he started up again.

It was left to me to move to the back of the crowd where people talked over the music and I could no longer see the band to escape him.

How any woman in this country could vote for a man who thinks and speaks of women in this way is inconceivable and it stops only when we start holding all men accountable.

That day can't come soon enough.

Bog Spot dot Com

My life writes itself.

As if I would pass up the opportunity to see Maceo Parker and Daddy G in a hurricane? Puh-leeze. But the friend who was meeting me was of a different persuasion.

Dang! I'm not walking anywhere in this bullshit. It's POURING!
According to Accuweather it's going to clear up shortly.

Which it most certainly did not, but that's hardly the point.

Those who plan their life around the temperature and precipitation are doomed to miss all kinds of wondrous things, but also, they are forever in my mind labeled weather wimps.

With one of my larger umbrellas in hand, I hoofed it to the Richmond Folk Festival without knowing if my friend would show or not, despite me leaving back-up instructions should he decide to brave the monsoon later.

The walk was a lot like parkour because I was constantly  jumping over puddles, fording streamlets and having to negotiate ledges and curbs to avoid getting further soaked.

And if I thought it was bad on city streets and sidewalks, I was completely unprepared for the quicksand-like miasma of Tredegar and Brown's Island's once-grassy fields and dirt pathways.

I'd just stepped onto the muddy mess of Gary Gerloff Way when I spotted everyone's favorite banjo player leaving, but, as he said, for the very best of reasons: to go home to his four-day old baby.

He got a pass.

After dropping my contribution in the bucket, I headed up the steps at Tredegar behind a guy who already had a napkin wedged into the heel of his boot to address a festival blister, only to realize I'd reached the wrong stage.

The trade-off was running into a wine rep friend on the way out, feeling guilty about bailing because of rain so he gifted me with his Folk Fest map to help avoid future navigational errors.

Moseying back down the steps, I made my first stop at Urbanna Crabcakes for, what else, a crabcake sandwich (and the pleasure of hearing the kid behind the table bark at the kitchen staff's adults, "CrabCAKE!" like a drill sergeant) and passed the time while they were making it by watching two FF volunteers take possession of their fried oyster boats.

The woman took hers to the table and promptly covered the bivalves and fries with ketchup, then cocktail sauce, then hot sauce and finally tartar sauce.

X-ray glasses would have been the only way to see the oysters for the condiments.

Just as I'm concluding that she must really hate the taste of oysters, she holds up a squirt bottle, raises an eyebrow at her companion and a look of panic crosses his face.

"Er, no, um, I like them the way they are," he tells her, clutching his fried oyster boat closer to protect it from her saucy invasion.

Walking to a hospitality tent to sit down and eat, I lost my shoe for the first time when mud sucked it clean off my foot, setting the tone for the entire evening and future lost shoes. On the up side, the crabcake was outstanding: large, sauteed to a golden brown and resting on a boat of fries.

Fortified, I walked over to our Plan B meeting place but after seeing no sign of my weather wimp friend, took the higher bridge to Brown's Island where I spotted a "Don't NOVA my RVA" bumper sticker on a bridge support as I went by.

Yes, for the love of all that is sacred, please don't.

But what I also noticed from the bridge's high point as I looked around at the silvery gray canal, sky and river along with the bridges and sidewalks bustling with pedestrians was that Richmond was having its London moment and all those weather wimps were missing it.

I was headed to the Dominion Dance Pavilion for the foreseeable future, feeling confident because it's a covered stage, but I had no clue as to what awaited me.

Located at the far end of Brown's Island near the trail for my beloved Pipeline Walkway, it clearly sat at a low point on the island, meaning a moat had formed on three sides of the wooden dance floor that had been laid.

I slogged through to a seat and was immediately reminded me of my amateur status when a pro and his wife arrived and a hand towel appeared from his pocket to dry their seats before sitting down. So very civilized.

Just as I was beating myself up for not having done the same, the woman next to me complimented me on my bell bottoms and I forgot practicality entirely for a compliment from a stranger.

Her husband warned me off attempting to cross the area to their right to get to the dance floor because of how deep the water and mud were. I only needed to see one guy attempt it to realize that people needed to be warned away from it.

I did my best, but watching insistent types try to cross it anyway provided a lot of entertainment for the three of us. Before long, people were taking selfies of their feet and legs buried past their ankles in the mud baths and by the end of the night, people were bringing friends over to admire the depth of the muck.

When a guy appeared to my left and his girlfriend to my right on the dance floor, he waved her around, nailing the situation.

 "It's a bog!" That it was.

Me, I was there to see Gary "U.S" Bonds, who brought his Norfolk sound to the stage and managed to prove within a couple of '60s songs I'd never heard why Springsteen, among others, had been so influenced by his sax-fronted brand of rock and roll.

When Gary asked an audience member where she was from, I couldn't hear the answer, but he apparently had. "Ports-mouth? You're from Ports-mouth? Deal with it!"

When he explained that they were combining several of their early '60s hits into a medley because they hated the songs they'd been playing for a half century, I understood completely.

On a more upbeat note, during a recent visit to Spain involving beautiful beaches and $3 wine, Gary had been told that their song "I Wanna Holler" was number three in Spain, a fact he attributed to "too much cheap wine."

He sounded as amazed as anybody at the news.

But the highlight of the set was when 90-year old Gene "Daddy G" Barge took the stage to sing "Way Back Home, talk about stopping by Oceanview and Church Street and playing the sax like a boss.

Without a doubt, the most sublime moment came when he told of playing with Bonnie Raitt on Oprah's show and, as a tribute to Bonnie, launched into a heartbreaking rendition of her '90s hit "I Can't Make You Love Me" - a song I find so incredibly sad that I never purposely listen to it - on sax.

I'm just going to say that until you've sat under a tent listening to a nonagenarian rip your heart out playing saxophone while a hurricane dumps rain all around you and winds buffet the tent you're under, you haven't had the fullest Folk Fest experience.

While the next band was setting up and more people arrived to pose in the bog, others used it as an open sewer, spitting in it and hocking into it. I had to assume they were raised by wolves.

On a higher plain, I watched as a guy took off his plastic bag raincoat, wrapped it around one of the tent's support poles, tied it in a knot and pushed it high up on the pole so he could return later and claim it.

Easily the most creative coat check I'd ever seen.

Soon I was joined by an artistic friend and music lover (we'd run into each other at Psychedelic Furs and I learned tonight of his abiding passion for punk), at the festival by himself because his main squeeze was at a birthday party, although she also thought he was crazy for going out in this weather for music.

But it's Maceo Parker, I insisted, feeling his need. "That's exactly what I told her," he said. And it's Maceo in a hurricane, so even better, we agreed.

L'Orchestre Afrisa Internationale took over the stage to deliver New World-influenced African music that soon had a band member dancing in a way that white people would call twerking but in reality was African-based in the first place.

Naturally, he also executed it far better than anyone my color could.

Despite the rain and mud on the dance floor, the crowd danced almost non-stop to Congolese music as trains screeched by and rain poured down even harder. My feet were wet and cold, as were my friend's, but we were in this for the duration.

Occasionally, I'd use my umbrella to block the wind-driven rain blowing in the canal side of the tent, but when my friend tried to do the same, the wind turned his umbrella inside out.

Mind you, we were inside the tent.

After their set, a Folk Fest talking head thanked the crowd for being there despite the elements. "You're a hearty bunch to be here in a hurricane! You're the real Folk Fest fanatics!"

I don't know about all that, but I do know every person in the Dance Pavilion braved the weather for the sake of seeing Maceo Parker.

Things got down and dirty fast as he and his impeccably-dressed band and back-up singers (one from James Brown's band and the other his cousin) did a number on songs by James Brown, George Clinton and others I didn't know.

"We only got two songs and this is one of 'em!" Maceo hollered before getting down on "Make It Funky."

It takes two to make things go right
It takes two to make it outasight

"They're really laying it down heavy," my friend commented once Mr. Parker and his trombone player got wailing.

They did Marvin Gay's "Let's Get It On" and his cousin sang lead on "Stand By Me" and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sax man was closing by saying, "I'm Maceo Parker!" as if everyone under that tent didn't already know.

Closing with a mashup of "Get On Up" and a reprise of "We Love to Love You," my friend's pleasure at the set was obvious. "I kept expecting James Brown to come out."

That wasn't necessary. It was enough that Daddy G and Maceo came to Richmond in a hurricane and I got to see and hear it.

Dang, it wasn't just all right, it was clean outasight. So I got a little wet. I'll dry.

Purple Haze

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result, then the definition of stupidity is doing something in the most time-consuming and arduous kind of way. Repeatedly.

Welcome to Foto Boy and I trying to go to the theater tonight.

When he comes to pick me up, I point out the obvious: we should be walking. At 3/4 of a mile, and knowing that there are two events at CenterStage tonight, it only makes sense.

Still, we drive.

And drive. And slow down looking for parking spaces and go down streets clogged with other motorists. Drive down the same streets repeatedly with the same result (see above): no spaces. A couple of times, we got close to Main Street, a major mistake considering this is opening night for Folk Fest.

Yes, he's my friend, but he's also got a "Y" chromosome, so when I tried to gently suggest we head away from CenterStage and away from the Folk Fest (ergo, north or west), he got crotchety and insisted I let him find parking.

Only problem was he was so flustered he wasn't even thinking by this point, say, roughly 20 minutes into the endeavor. We could have walked over from my apartment and started back in that much time.

Finally, he agreed to cross Broad and we found a space on the first block. Time elapsed: 25 minutes.

Only problem was, we were still five blocks from the Gottwald Playhouse and this is not a man who can keep up with my walking pace, much less my pace when it's curtain time and we're blocks away.

Bless his heart, he tried, though, huffing and puffing all the way up until an usher on the sidewalk asked, "Comedy or Dracula?" and I answered for him. At Will Call, the woman said they'd held the curtain for five minutes, so the play was just now beginning.

Our only saving grace was the other three people who were as late as we were.

We were told to stand on the sides until we got the nod to sit, but we were so near the stage that I, at least, was immediately swallowed up in the action onstage, where force meat was being mentioned. When the usher came to fetch us and lead us to seats, it took a second for me to make the transition back to reality.

But made it I did, so I could be fully present to accept, as we walked up steps to reach our seats, that we were those annoying, oblivious people - who had somehow not allowed enough time to park on a Friday night when half of Richmond would be downtown - who were now obstructing their view getting seated.

Sigh. I believe the proper term for us is "rubes."

One reason I'd been eager not to miss so much as a minute of Quill Theatre's production of "Dracula" is that (for shame) I really don't know much about the story because I'd definitely never read Bram Stoker's novel.

And this was a 1996 adaptation by Steven Dietz, so I'm still not entirely certain if the story I got is the same as the original 1897 version. Thankfully, a lot of the language had the more formal feel of the 19th century, so it may have been original.

It was far sexier than I expected and much funnier, like when Dracula says, "The Huns were despicable but they did make good wine!" but also groovier (signs read: "Haze will be used") and more poignant ("What of the great un-beautiful multitudes?").

And the biggest surprise? How limited Count Dracula's role was. Oh, sure, he was talked about plenty, but onstage infrequently, albeit imposingly in his all-black Goth ensembles.

My logical side objected when suitors would provide the necessary blood transfusions to their weakened beloveds with no concern for blood type and my inner art historian was annoyed when Leonardo was referred to as "da Vinci," his hometown and not his name at all.

And why did all the women have on period tops yet pants rather than skirts, on the bottom?

But theater, as we know, is about suspension of belief after all, so I suspended in order to appreciate the multi-level set, the moody lighting and the way the cast completely inhabited their roles.

I'm a tad better informed on the legend of Dracula as a result.

Walking back to the car, Foto Boy was busy explaining how tired he was, so he couldn't possibly accompany me to the Carnival of 5 Fires at Gallery 5 to watch the fire performers before driving home.

Which is exactly why, after spotting a free parking space across from GWAR Bar, I didn't hesitate to tell him to pull into it and accompany me for a short while. After 7 years of friendship with this guy, I knew he'd be glad to have gone once we got there.

"You think you know me so well, don't you?" he said in his smarmiest voice as we got out of the car, but the truth is, I do know him pretty well and, at the very least, way better than his girlfriend of less than a year does.

So my answer was yes.

Only problem was, we got up to the closed street just as the ringmaster was closing down the show and sending people to the afterparty at Strange Matter.

"It's time to get out of the street, get on to the sidewalk and pick up your trash!" he exhorted the great beautiful and un-beautiful multitudes, many of whom wore gypsy-like threads. "Our street permit just ended!"

Ah, but that wasn't all.

"And don't forget to vote! It's an important election this year! Don't forget to drink water...you know, our bodies are mostly made of water! And be nice to people because it's the right thing to do!"

So while we didn't get to see any fire performers, we at least saw the burning torches resting by the stage as he outlined the ABCs of life to remind those who needed them.

The only one he left out was, "Don't bother driving when walking is faster and easier!"

Needless to say, I walked home. Whether Foto Boy made it home or is still looking for a parking space, I really can't say.

Without Words

I know all of you wanted it, but I'm hating it already.

Fall, that is.

It hadn't even crawled into the '60s when I walked late this morning, not to mention that walking west meant walking into the wind, and, well, the humidity? So low as to make it feel even colder.

I just hope all you "Fall-is-fabulous" people are happy now because I'm already sweater and socks chilly.

Sure, I could start closing windows in my apartment, but I refuse to this early. Besides, I know Hurricane Matthew 's effects are going to be felt soon, so I'm hanging on with only screens separating me from the potentially soggy and humid beach weather on the horizon.

But when Mac and I walked to Saison Market for dinner and the Perfect Unpop happy hour, I was layered with a tank top under my dress and a sweater over it.

Positively tragic for October 6th.

After ordering food, I chose a Squirt soda (Mexican, so sugar not corn syrup) in a green glass bottle from the case out of sheer curiosity.

Squirt didn't seem familiar, but it also didn't seem completely unknown and one swig of the citrus-flavored drink did bring back tastes of various green bottled sodas of my youth.

Like the last time I was in the market, a fair amount of time was given over to the wall, where a riveting school map of Virginia with smaller maps - annual rainfall, number of freezes, settlement, population - surrounding it caused endless study and discussion.

Mac, ever the Orange County expert, explained why the foothills tended to be colder (because dolts like me don't automatically figure such things out), how big Orange used to be (hello, Kentucky) and where the Spottswood Trail was (proving again how informative maps are as visual aids).

Everything about our meal was stellar, from an earthy root vegetable salad of beets and carrots with bleu cheese, walnuts, frisee and chives in a shallot vinaigrette (a dish that inadvertently reminded me that, unlike its weather, I don't hate Fall vegetables) to pitch perfect (meaning not overly sweet) cast iron cornbread studded with peppers to killer chicken wings with a dry rub of Sechuan peppers that left both my lips and fingers all tingly.

Which was kind of true of my ears as well because everything about DJ Kenny's music was just as outstanding, as he played song after song that spoke to various times in my life whether I'd heard them before or not.

As I told his gorgeous partner, I can see why she fell for a man of his superior musical taste and selection skills.

I'd have happily stayed and listened to such fine music until we left for the play, but Mac desired a cocktail and Saison's new Fall cocktail menu wasn't going to drink itself.

That we had to move from the market to the restaurant to obtain for her the tequila and mezcal-based Rose Colored Glasses cocktail (notable for its smokey grace notes between agave and citrus) meant we lost a DJ-curated experience, but at least I ran into a favorite neighborhood couple for widely varying conversations.

With the social butterfly I talked about the great music on tap next door and why he needed to get over there.

With the homebody, the topic was the VCU lecture on the early gay student group and how the millennials in the audience had reacted to the subject (hint: without a clue).

Here's a  tip, kids: you can't apply a 21st century prism to events of the '70s. There, I've said it.

Because the universe can, that conversation turned out to be a natural lead-in to our next stop at Richmond Triangle Players for "Perfect Arrangement," a play that was as much a cultural history lesson as theatrical experience.

Further coincidentally, our seats were next to those of yet another favorite Jackson Ward couple and with them we talked neighborhood tenure (their 17 beat my 10), our community garden and upcoming neighborhood cleanup.

At its most basic, "Perfect Arrangement" told the story of two State department employees in 1950 when the department (and Joe McCarthy) was on a witch hunt for communists (Red Scare), followed by one for perverts and deviants (Lavender Scare), along with any loose women and persons of general turpitude.

That's a lot of people to round up, you know?

Being set in 1950 meant all the usual period details: shirtwaist dresses, crinolines, hats and gloves, but also foodstuffs ("You know I adore potted meat," which everyone finds hilarious including those of us who really do adore potted meat) and love of lard.

The set's living room was painted the exact same shade of pink as my own, not that I believe for a second that anyone painted their living rooms pink in 1950.

Okay, maybe two gay couples, one male, one female, married to the opposite sex for propriety's sake but really each living in closeted same sex relationships might have, but no one else.

Presumptions about gay men - that they read movie magazines and go to the opera - abounded, as did references to the play's Georgetown setting (Wisconsin Avenue for shopping, U Street for a butcher) and arcane mid-century phrasing ("We caught a lark" about deciding to do something on a whim).

Generalizations about women by men - even gay ones- stung ("Give a woman responsibility and her emotions are bound to pop up") while comments about women by women - even gay ones - resonated.

Explaining how impressed she was with targeted "loose woman" Barbara's self acceptance and attitude, Millie shares her reasoning. "That woman told me her age! Who does that?"

Who? A woman tired of deception about her life and sexuality and finally motivated to be honest about it so the shame can stop, or at least lessen to the degree it could have in 1950.

Let's not forget that's barely 30 years after women got the vote and 53 years before sodomy laws came off the books. It's hard to fathom now how prehistoric a time it really was.

One of the most poignant moments of many was a scene where one of the lesbians explained to her partner that she'd give up all the material comforts of her sham marriage just to be able to display pictures of her with her female partner.

Strikingly, even the gay men didn't understand that desire.

Jennifer Frank chewed scenery as Barbara, the loose woman and subject of State Department scrutiny, who let go with one of the finest truisms of the night.

"Regardless of the gender, good sex is hard to find and always worth fighting for." Amen and pass the cornbread.

When the play ended, the guy in front of me announced, "That's the best play I've seen in years." Next to me, my neighbor looked stunned, saying only, "Wow, that was really something." Mac concurred. "Man, that was good!"

Yet again, Richmond Triangle Players ably demonstated that if they didn't do it, who would?

"Perfect Arrangement's" strength was in shedding light on the dilemma of gay people during a deeply closeted period when every American was expected to follow the straight and narrow and some chose instead to stand up for their hearts.

Me, I was just thrilled that when we left the theater, it was noticeably warmer and more humid than when we'd come in or even when I'd walked this morning. Is it too much to be thrilled that this storm will bring a short reprieve from Fall?

My favorite lesbian wrote me today, firmly instructing, "No ripping for you at the beach this weekend, ok? Stay out of Matthew's sights and be safe."

To the surprise of no one who knows me, I intend  to revel in his warmth and wetness.

I know, I know. Who does that?

Sad Drinks Free, Glad Pays

Short of being wooed myself, what better use of my time than nine little stories about love?

That taking them in required a drive down soul-sucking I-95 was only a minor inconvenience since He-Who-Just-Gave-His-Girlfriend-A-Ring did the driving, although he also showed up without cash, leaving me to foot the minuscule bill for our intermission desserts.

On the other hand, he, a talented photographer, was good enough to snap photos of me afterward in front of rushing Swift Creek and the measuring marker in the water.

Mid-pose, I heard my name called, only to see a woman I worked with 15 years ago, whom he quickly pulled over for more watery pictures.

Swift Creek Mill Theater's production of "Almost, Maine" was introduced by the artistic director as including, "Live! On stage today...the Aurora Borealis!" followed by a corny joke about what a bitch it had been to wrangle the star cluster's agent into letting it appear.

On the plus side, each scene ended with a projection of the splendor of the Northern Lights appearing on the back of an empty stage to punctuate the romance or heartbreak.

Ideal for those short on attention spans (although the crowd was the usual mostly blue hairs), the play presented nine vignettes that were imagined to have happened around 9:00 on a cold winter evening in Almost, Maine - not a city or town, but part of Maine's "unorganized territories," a term I'd never even heard before, but which apparently still exist in under-populated states.

Thank goodness I can go to the theater for well-acted love stories and walk away with a minor civics lesson.

Even better was how frequently a vignette would end and one or the other of us would say to the other, "Boy, that was clever!"

The play was full of whimsy - a woman carried the pieces of her broken heart in a bag; the "other shoe" literally falling from the sky when a husband and wife acknowledge their relationship is kaput; a guy who falls to the ground repeatedly when he falls in love - but at its most appealing when someone spontaneously kissed someone who wasn't expecting it (I can attest, this has been known to happen) or blurted out "I love you" to a stranger ("We call that a very warm Maine welcome").

Some scenes were downright poignant, like when a guy runs into his ex at a bar where sad people drink for free and says, "Driving away a girl like you makes me a villain, so I marked myself as a punishment."

Only problem is he misspelled "villain" as "villian" when he tattooed it on his arm and he's about to find out that the empathetic waitress' name is - wait for it - Villian.

Even sadder was one where a woman, Hope, returned via taxi from Bangor years later to finally accept the marriage proposal her former boyfriend had extended the night before she left for college.

Because she doesn't immediately recognize him, he's able to expound on the hurt of dashed hopes in a sadly dispassionate manner that only adds to her loss.

In one particularly literal vignette, a woman shows up returning all the love her boyfriend had given her, dumping brightly-colored bags of it on the floor and demanding, "All the love I gave you? I want it back!"

You can do that? Now there's a concept I never even considered.

There were lots of awkward relationship conversations just like in real life and just as many sight gags by the time the play ended with the same couple with whom it had begun.

The surprise was that she'd gone the distance for love, only to come right back to him, making the playwright's message pretty clear. Kiss often, love freely and confess your heart when you must, even when it's not answered.

And forget that business of finding the other half of your heart. It's all about compatible eccentricities. No, really.

Bottom line? Love, actually, is a combination of misfires and bull's eyes. So shoot already.

Until the Poets Run Out of Rhyme

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.

Picture Postcard Worthy Views

Sometimes you need a local perspective.

It's not just that all those articles about why Richmond is so great, or even the "36 Hours in Richmond" variety, always seem to address the same obvious choices, but they also can't take into account weather.

Sure, you can come visit planning to bike or walk the Capitol Trail but if it's pouring, you can forget about it. Or if your plan is to spend the day inside at the VMFA and the weather is ideal, you're gonna recalculate, no?

So yesterday's pitch perfect weather was the deciding factor in how to spend a Monday night date: find a porch and park it. Turns out that wasn't as easy as it could've been.

After eliminating the pricey option, we also excluded the so-new-it-would-be-slammed option and headed for Rockett's to enjoy the views if not the fare at Conch Republic, only to be informed that it was "team meeting and clean-up night."

Given that, you'd think they'd have taken down the specials board just outside the front door, but nope.

That's the short version of how we ended up ensconced on the balcony at a pricey place with a killer view (if you don't count the sewage treatment plant), mine of the James snaking downriver in the dark and his of the glittering city skyline making watery shadows on the river.

But it was the evening air - soft, deep blue, almost temperature-less - that was the defining feature as we sipped Spanish Rose while eating crabcakes and shrimp and grits, outlasting not just everyone on the patio and balcony, but inside the restaurant as well. Amateurs.

And that's exactly my point. If one of those corny articles about how cool Richmond is chose to include the Boathouse - a place where a crabcake sandwich is $18 and the entitled and annoying crowd clearly comes directly from the West End (a woman leaving as we arrived summed up the type, telling her friend with a roll of her eyes, "I already feel guilty for what I just ate") - I would roll my eyes and tell whoever would listen that I'd hate for a visitor to think the Boathouse represented what Richmond has to offer.

Except you know what?

On a Monday night with a minimal crowd and exquisite early Fall weather (my date cajoles, "Come on, admit you like this beautiful less humid weather just a little bit?"), there was no place I'd rather have been and not just because the company was stellar.

Once dessert of mango key lime parfait was history, we briefly considered moving to another location, except neither of us could come up with anywhere to land that would have been half as perfect, so we stayed and sipped more Rose.

Occasionally a staff member would drop by to refill our water glasses or just comment on the weather, but, honestly, we practically had the joint to ourselves as the night settled around us and the James.

Now that's something I could highly recommend to visitors.

The Camera Loves You

Maybe it's just me, but the day after a 10-hour party, an early evening is in order.

That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.

After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."

My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.

Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.

And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.

Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.

For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.

A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).

Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.

Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.

While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.

The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.

All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.

Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.

Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.

Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.

Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.

After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.

From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.

Even the so-called angry ones.

We Built This City

The Presidential debate's got nothing on the Richmond Mayorathon.

Did the Clinton/Trump shindig begin with the director of a top ten museum clutching a doll representing "The Scream" while bragging about the upcoming Edvard Munch/Jasper Johns show? I'm afraid it didn't.

Did the national event have not one but two women moderators? It did not. Nor did it have a moderator who repeatedly called out candidates who rambled without answering the question, although she wasn't consistent about it, letting some people off the hook.

Did the prez debate begin with each candidate walking out to his or her own self-selected theme song? I don't think so and although some choices were regrettably trite - "I am the Champion, "Fight Song" or ~shudder~ Dave Matthews Band - it established early on that Richmond was doing this debate thing in our usual DIY way.

Did the unpleasant big business candidate in Monday's debate get showered in a spontaneous chorus of "boos" from the crowd when he went self-servingly off-topic in the very first question of the evening like RVA's unpleasant big business candidate did tonight? No such luck.

Did the main event have a pedophile on the dais main-splaining about how, despite being known as a fighter, he works well with others to accomplish things? Um, nope.

Well, did the televised debate have a candidate who would answer a question about the city's defects by saying, "The biggest weakness is Miss Mosby not being mayor" or fake pout because she wasn't getting enough applause?

And am I the only voter concerned about a would-be mayor referring to herself in the third person?

You don't think Monday's moderator would have had the balls to pull a speed round titled "Team of Rivals" and ask each candidate to say what person running they'd pick to be part of their team and in what capacity, do you?

Or have a candidate so clueless he would respond, "I'd pick a name out of a hat" when asked to choose a specific person, or another who could - with a straight face, mind you - refer to corporate pimp Berry as a "fine southern gentleman"?

It is to laugh.

Where tonight's local version of democracy in action aligned with the all-important Presidential debate was that there was clearly one candidate who'd prepared scrupulously to talk issues and past record and, best of all, even bring humor to the table while others were known to traffic in run-on sentences, platitudes and meaningless rah-rah.

On the subject of transit and how to sell regional transit to the counties, Jon Baliles pointed to the Broad Street corridor labeled in purple on the map and said, "We need to convince the people along the purple route that bus is not a four-letter word."

Boom. And, make no mistake, by "people," he means NIMBY-type white people.

Asked about increasing the city's walkability and bikability, Baliles reminded the sold-out crowd that, "Everyone knows Richmonders are equally bad at walking, biking and driving." Affirmations like we were in church abounded.

Even when reminiscing about the James when he was a boy growing up in Stratford Hills, he managed to elicit a laugh when he said, "Back then, you didn't go in the river for fear you'd grow a second head."

No, where the Presidential debate and Richmond's Mayorathon dovetailed was that any sentient voter could plainly see there was only one viable option to lead. Even the other candidates knew it.

When asked about who they'd want on their team if elected, three of them chose Baliles. Duh. Let's hope Richmond voters in five districts are that savvy in November.

Next to me was a couple who moved to the Fan from London two weeks ago with a table and chairs ("It's a long story," they said in unison when I asked), yet here they were, out trying to learn about the people who want to run their adopted city.

Leaning in, he asked me, "We're new here. Is there a runoff if no one candidate gets at east 50% of the vote?"

I explained that if no candidate gets a majority in at least 5 of the 9 districts, there most certainly is a runoff and he seemed satisfied with that as we exited the auditorium.

Using the warm, humid and breezy night that we agreed felt like beach weather as an excuse, Mac and I ditched the post-debate reception at the museum for the greener pastures of Meadow and Park, where we could hear Janis Joplin blaring from Garnett's open windows and doors from a block away.

Inside, the air was every bit as beach-like as outside, but the music was even more enjoyable at close range and we could sup and sip while rehashing Richmond's political spectacle and the folly of a proposed riverfront project to turn the wilderness of one of our favorite walking destinations, Chapel Island, into a manicured, concrete "park."

Our sense of being at peace with the world eating strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting in the soft night air while Jefferson Airplane blared only encouraged us to believe that yes, we can elect a mayor who will move Richmond forward without selling out or diluting what makes this place so distinctive and livable.

He's only got one head, but tonight proved that was plenty. Baliles is our guy. Even the Londoners said so.

Looking and Sounding Fab

You didn't have to grow up in a rancher or split level, but it definitely upped the sense of deja vu if you had.

Modern Richmond was doing a pop-up of a 1960 split level in Maymont and by pop-up, that meant no one was going to speak about the house built by local architect Louis Stephenson, which is what usually happens at these events.

But visitors were welcome to traipse through - sans shoes, as usual - all four levels and marvel at its near-museum state and period-appropriate furniture.

Because I'd also grown up in a house built in 1960, there was a hella lot to relate to for me, along with plenty I couldn't because this was a custom built house (ahem, intercoms in every room) and my parents' house was just another suburban tract house.

Walking toward it just as a light rain began, my first impression was pure Brady Bunch; it just had that look with a wall of windows in the front, a shared balcony spanning several bedrooms and blue and white diamond panels next to the front door.

Apparently the original owner had recently died and her children are selling off the family homestead, so we were treated to a staged house using - with the exception of some living room pieces - the owner's mid-century modern furnishings.

See: diamond-shaped mirror over the dining room credenza.

In the downstairs rec-room, I was immediately at home with the wood paneling but my Dad's modest Formica bar couldn't compare to the extensive curved bar with alternating blue and yellow stools and we sure didn't have a fireplace in our rec room.

In the entrance way was possibly the grooviest element of the entire house: a Nutone built-into-the-wall stereo/high-fidelity/radio/intercom system that consisted of four units including reel to reel player and turntable, each jutting from the wall in brown and gold glory.

Even the kitchen had a long stretch of windows, but also an amoeba-shaped built-in table, a tall cabinet with pegboard lining ("My grandparents had the same thing," Mac observed) and, wonder of wonders, a Hot Point range with a knob labeled "Supermatic" (we hadn't a clue) and where the fourth burner (electric, of course, this was 1960 and gas was old-fashioned) was actually a deep fryer.

As in, a hole where the burner would've been with a fry basket resting inside, their very own built-in Fry Daddy.

Praise be the days before we were collectively nagged about eating fried food.

Hardly surprisingly, nearby on the counter was a metal grease can with inside strainer exactly like the one my Mom had had, except hers had looked a little greasier than this one.

You know, because cooking for a family of eight, it was probably hard to have nice things.

The oven, just so you know, was that distinctive shade of aqua that defined the late '50s and early '60s and hanging it from its lower oven was a cloth tea towel with a 1967 calendar on it.

Classic stuff, I tell you.

In the dining room, atop a Danish modern-looking sideboard was an electric Presto-Pride percolator with settings spanning "mild" to "strong."

In my house, the percolator was always set on "strong" and the boys my sisters and I brought home judged by whether they drank their coffee black.

Upstairs, I opened a closet that still held linens and assorted junk, only to find a small red volume, Peg Bracken's "On Getting Old for the First Time," and while the title wasn't familiar, the author was.

My favorite grandmother was a huge fan of Bracken's smart-assed writings on cooking and housekeeping and even had a copy of her "I Hate to Cook" book. As a kid, I recall reading some of her articles and thinking she was hilarious.

Stir and let cook five minutes while you light a cigarette and stare sullenly at the sink.

Come on, she was Betty Friedan with a cocktail and without the sermonizing.

In one of the upstairs bathrooms, we were delighted when Mac discovered a shiny, stainless steel square over the sink that, when touched, swiveled to reveal a hidden toothbrush and glass holder.

Above it was a generously-sized medicine cabinet ("They don't put these in houses anymore," Mac commented with disdain) with more than enough room for cold cream, cake mascara and Dexedrine.

The four bedrooms were not only familiar for their compact size, but a reminder that our notion of personal space has grown way out of proportion. You should've seen the tiny rooms I shared with another sister.

Honestly, how much bedroom does one kid - or even two - really need?

More than once, we heard other guests saying some variation of the same thing: "This place is like a museum" and "This is all so familiar."

By the time we left, my head was firmly planted in the '60s, exactly the right place to be to go see the documentary, "The Beatles Eight Days a Week: The Touring Years" at Movieland with others of an age.

I hadn't become a Beatles fan until the '70s, so there was plenty I didn't know and hadn't seen.

Because it was a Ron Howard-directed project, I was counting on great archival footage and obscure finds, and that's exactly what we got. Beatles obsessives might have seen some of this stuff before, but a lot of it was fresh to me.

The sheer joyfulness of the early performances and how well they managed to sing despite non-stop screaming offered a glimpse into the bizzaro world they more or less created.

Since the documentary only told the story of a very specific period - essentially 1961-66, although it ended with the 1969 rooftop concert - it didn't deal with a lot of the band's deeper issues, just the steamroller effect of Beatlemania and how it wore the four lads down eventually.

In one fairly early sequence, the band introduces itself.

I'm Paul and I play bass guitar. I'm George and I play solo guitar. I'm John and I play better guitar.

No friendly rivalry there or anything.

It was fascinating hearing a young Paul insist that they wouldn't play the Gator Bowl in Jacksonville if the concert hall was segregated and seeing the contract where that was stipulated, but the really impressive part was hearing that from then on, stadium shows were no longer segregated for anyone.

As a history lesson, I learned that they took flak when a concert in Japan was planned for Budokan because it was a scared place. My first thought was that apparently the Japanese got over that by 1978 when Cheap Trick recorded an entire album there.

What mainly came across was what a lark the band considered the whole experience, at least at first. When a reporter asks Paul about the Beatles' affect on the culture, Paul corrects him, saying they weren't culture, they were just a good laugh.

And they were, at press conferences and interviews, using bad puns, quick quips and sarcasm to make the endless round of press stops not only tolerable but fun for them.

During a recording session, John tells George Martin, "Keep that take! It sounded fab!"

One thing that surprised me was that in the present day interviews with Paul and Ringo, it was Ringo who came across more robustly and less old man-sounding.

When the film ended, we got a surprise screening of the Beatles historic 30-minute set at Shea Stadium, but not the scream-filled audio I'd heard before but a remastered version that put the band's vocals high in the mix and the endless screaming far in the background.

That alone was worth hearing, if nothing else than for the marvel of how these guys managed to stay in tune when they couldn't hear each other at all. Ringo used to watch Paul and John's backsides to know when a song ended.

But my main takeaway was what a pivotal period in women's liberation the arrival of the Beatles was. Watching those girls in the audience swoon shamelessly, cry with desire for these log-haired lads and all but climax in their seats had to be an empowering thing after the buttoned-up Eisenhower years.

It's like they were conveying, we are sexual creatures and we will display that in public if we want to.

Do you want to know a secret? Staring at a guy's backside beats the hell out of staring sullenly at a sink.

We've come a long way, baby, from aqua ovens.

Captured for Posterity

Tonight was #3 of 6 dates with a multi-talented dead man.

After twice seeing "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" at the VMFA, I was ready for the lecture at University of Richmond entitled, "Gordon Parks from Kansas to New York: A Conversation."

Well...conversation may be a bit of a stretch - it was more of presentation, presentation, questions from moderator, questions from audience - but it did flesh out my knowledge of Parks and provide a bit of mental stimulation after an unusually intense day.

While Peter Kunhart, Jr., the executive director of the Parks Foundation, actually knew Parks (his grandfather was an editor at Life and a personal friend of Parks - he had a photo to prove it), it was Karen Haas, the photography curator at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, from whence the show originated, who brought unadulterated enthusiasm for everything Parks to the talk.

Rarely, she stressed, does a curator have such a fabulous opportunity to dig deep into a particular segment of an artist's work as she had done with the previously unpublished Fort Scott photographs and artist's notes.

As she pointed out in far more ladylike language, that's the kind of assignment curators have wet dreams about.

She'd even roped in her husband to do a road trip to retrace the places where Parks had gone as Life's first black staff photographer to capture his elementary school classmates as part of an assignment to honestly depict segregation issues.

It seems that while the magazine claimed to be pro-integration, they hadn't actually covered the subject in its pages before. In a stroke of brilliance, they sent a black photographer who took days getting comfortable with his subjects before shooting them.

What Parks discovered was that 11 of the 12 had left Fort Scott as part of southern blacks' great migration to northern cities in hopes of a better life. What Haas discussed was how nuanced were Parks' photos of these migratory families in the years just before the first stirrings of the Civil Rights movement began.

The photographer's goal, she explained, was to open the minds of Life's mostly white middle-class readership and he planned to do that with portraits of families in front of their homes (always in all-black neighborhoods), couples eating dinner, posed on couches and children playing piano with families singing along.

The latter was to be especially meaningful to whites because it showed the stability and strength of black middle class families engaged in cultured activities, no doubt images that would have been eye-openers for racist readers.

Except the piece never ran because of the little matter of the Korean conflict breaking out and taking precedence in the magazine (tell me about it - an assignment I turned in last March just ran this week).

But Parks' words and images never ran until this exhibition was mounted.

The importance of Fort Scott in shaping Parks came full circle during the Q & A period when a guy from Fort Scott pointed to a photo on the screen of black children standing on a platform behind rows of white people in seats watching a baseball game.

"I played on that field and my Dad coached me there," he shared, pointing at the image. "And in Fort Scott, Gordon Parks was like a god."

Fortunately for me, I have three more dates with that god.

Passport in Order

I am not a political junkie, despite coming from the loins of two such people.

For the most part, I stay out of the fray, basing my political opinions on what I read since I don't watch TV or listen to radio news.

If you want the truth, I don't generally bother watching debates, either - can't remember the last one I saw - because I'd just as soon read the analysis the next day to assess who said what and how they handled themselves.

But.

In my decades as a registered voter, I have never felt the queasiness I feel this year and, like most Americans, my opinion of this election cycle is shared by everyone, as in every single person I know. I honestly can't say I've met a single Trump supporter, making it even harder for me to fathom the human beings who support this wing nut.

So, yes, Virginia, when I saw there was a debate-watching party at Camden's, I made it part of my evening's plans after wine on the porch and dinner out with Pru, who good-naturedly agreed to end the evening with politics.

Since we were a few minutes late arriving, the attentive crowd was already intent on the screen when we walked in, accepted the glasses of Rose and plate of fried chicken wings we were handed and took up our position standing next to a late-blooming political junkie and a visiting North Carolinian.

That's right, this debate was important enough to stand for an hour and a half.

Since my only frame of reference for Trump was the Internet snippets liberal friends have posted, I was there to see how the man held up over the long haul, not that an hour and a half should be especially long should you be President.

First of all, if his long-dead Scottish mother wasn't rolling over in her grave, then that's proof that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I have never seen such a deplorable lack of manners, especially for someone who somehow believes he'd be a fine leader of the free world. In the "everything I needed to know, I learned in kindergarten" category, interrupting someone, shouting them down while speaking, is certainly on the list, along with other basic rules of civility.

Play fair.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Share everything.

Perhaps the Donald didn't go to kindergarten. He clearly never learned to speak in coherent sentences (or maybe he and Sarah Palin went to the same kindergarten).

It was satisfying hearing the cheers when Hillary nailed something ("I have a feeling that by the end of the evening I'll be blamed for everything.") and when Trump had yet another misstep  ("That makes me smart"), as if the room was all on the same wavelength.

The only two Trump supporters sitting in the back slipped out of their seats and left before the debate ended, effectively confirming even their mortification with the candidate.

But everyone's still terrified on some level because we just don't know what'll happen in November. My favorite Virgo is looking at New Zealand and my biggest fan emailed this morning, saying, "Want to move to Canada, Sweden, Bali?"

Trump's finest moment came when he said, "We are a nation that is seriously troubled."

Yes, yes we are, but at the possibility that a loser like you could represent and govern us.

Even a non-political junkie with a penchant for Rose and wings has that much sense.

The Way You Remember Me

How long 'till we learn dancing is dangerous?
How long 'till we find the devil inside of us?
How high is too low?
We're not that young*
So we're never going to stop

*Mind you, written and sung by a man of indeterminate age, so his notion of "youth" may be suspect.

I bought my ticket for St. Lucia at the National six weeks ago, but only found a worthy date for it a few days ago. In the meantime, the only other St. Lucia fan I know had commented that while the new album "Matter" wasn't quite as good as the first (because how many are?), there were more than a few terrific songs.

My first listen uncovered "Dancing on Glass," the Prince-titled "Game 4 You," the driving (and vaguely Christopher Cross-inflected) "Winds of Change" and the slow jam "Love Someone," meaning I now had even more reasons to look forward to this show.

We stopped at Rapp Session for Old Saltes and bluefish dip accompanied by sparkling Rose while the duo next to us nattered over why a friend had managed to pull down the towel racks and shower curtain while staying in their home.

"What could you be doing in a bathroom that would pull things off the wall?" she wondered aloud. Sex was my guess but I was told to shush.

Our time at Rapp Session was limited by needing to get a ticket for my companion at the National's box office, which required navigating the hustle and bustle of crowds on their way to eat before the Richmond Symphony season opener with Itzhak Perlman, resulting in blue hairs crowding every restaurant we passed.

But once that was accomplished, we were free to adjourn to Vagabond, where sparkling Rose and a massive ancho cocoa-smoked lamb shoulder tostada with chimichurri aioli and a flurry of Manchego on top finished off our appetites with lamb-be-cue worthy of the State Fair.

Arriving at the National shortly after Sofi Tukker (that's Sofi and Tukker, a duo) began their set, I overheard a guy refer to Tukker's hair as "Very Split Enz," while we all know that no one has hair with quite the swoop of Split Enz.

We heard songs in Portuguese, songs sung to recorded tracks (karaoke?) and praise when the audience followed instructions to do hand gestures to a song.

"We haven't had that much participation since we were in Latvia and no, that's not a punchline!" Tukker said from the stage.

I'm not gonna lie, I've been an unabashed fan of St. Lucia's debut album "When the Night" since I first heard it in 2013 and for years kept it in my car as quality back-up emergency music when I hadn't time to select fresh road trip soundtracks.

Fact: when you're on cruise control to the Northern Neck or Outer Banks, sometimes nothing but synth and danceable percussion will do.

After a couple of songs from the new album, the crowd roared when they launched into "Closer Than This," but I couldn't have been the only one noticing singer Jean-Philip Grobler's indebtedness to, say, George Michael.

I especially loved the wind effect that defined his performance, as his hair and black and white patterned shirt were blown constantly, as if he were starring in a cheesy '80s video, which, for all I know, he may have wished he was. He certainly wouldn't be the first.

He certainly had no fear of walking through the crowd, eventually making it back to the area in front of the sound booth where we stood and watched him high-five any number of dizzy fans.

Come to think of it, the percussionist bore a fair resemblance to John Oates in a sleeveless t-shirt and sweat pants tapered at the ankle, his shirt also billowing from an unseen fan.

Oh, if it were only that easy to revive that era.

Interestingly enough, I saw not a soul I know, a rarity for a show at the National, so I can only assume that my passion for '80s synth music-influenced bands with singers from South Africa is not one shared by my friends.

Happily, I only needed one, difficult as he may be. I'd be the first to admit that dancing can be dangerous but how high is too low?

I aim to find out.