Venting, the New Normal

Star log: Day two of bizarre new world order.

Nothing could have made me happier than Mac messaging me shortly after I woke up asking if I wanted company on my walk today. I sure did and I knew just the route I wanted to take: over the Lee bridge.

I needed an uplift, literally and figuratively, and walking over the Belle Isle-spanning bridge provides just that. There's something about being that high over the river - distinctively deep blue today - and looking down on the treetops, shed rooves and railroad tracks that provides a bit of necessary perspective.

The river still shimmers in the sunlight, the loaded coal trains continue to chug eastward and from up there, nothing reflects the seismic shift in our lives. We spent well over five miles railing against an outcome we hadn't even considered, sharing with each other the tidbits we'd read and seen to compare notes.

"Thanks for letting me vent!" she said, hand on my shoulder in appreciation, after we finished vilifying all the stupid white people who'd swept this badly-coiffed reality star into our lives for the foreseeable future.

Her only regret was that I hadn't told her to bring money so we could stop at Sweet Fix and soothe our bruised hearts and minds with sugar.

My pleasure principle was exercised tonight at In Your Ear Studio for an evening involving two of my best uses for time: music and conversation. I'd have been there sooner but I'd mistakenly gone to Sound of Music (and not even the current location, but the former one on Broad Street) instead.

Fortunately for me, I have no problem asking strangers for assistance.

When I asked the two guys in the nearby Afrikanna shop for help, they both had ties to the musical community and pointed me in the direction of Shockoe Bottom instead. I didn't bother pointing out that I'd actually been there before, so I really should've known better.

Walking up to the studio, I was joined by a bartender friend and political junkie who immediately asked if I was ready to discuss the election. In a meaningful in-depth way, you mean? Not sure that I am.

The moment we were inside, we were directed to the studio doors that blocked us from where Yeni Nostalji had just begun their set of '60s Turkish covers and original songs. Lead singer Christina looked like a sultry '60s songstress in a tight black dress with the shoulders cut out and her long dark hair swept to the side, the better to cascade down one shoulder.

After the songs, she'd explain the Turkish lyrics and one involved a warning about how if you loved a woman, she was like a rose and if you love roses, you have to put up with the thorns.

"Amen!" one of her bandmates observed, although I won't say whether it was Vlad (he of the superb guitar faces) or Rey (stylishly '60s attired and a master on maracas) who recognized the wisdom of the translation.

For all I know, all the men in the room did.

Their set was only five songs long, but it was especially cool for me because as many times as I've seen this band, tonight I got to watch a lot of other people who hadn't seen them before and were blown away.

In fact, afterward, during the conversation and mingling part of the evening, I talked to the sound guy who laid it out. "I record all these shows, but it's always amazing when a band is this good and this easy and I just get to watch and appreciate."

The two of us spent a good amount of our social time talking about music, finding your life's passion and how it's the people in your life that matter, not dwelling on the potential horror of what may go wrong in the years to come until 2020.

The Man About Town introduced me to a young writer from VCU and we three did some medium-deep ruminating on what might change for women over the next four years.

Unlike me, she's never known a world where she didn't have certain protections as well as services available to her and I sensed that because of that, she wasn't nearly as worried about loss as I was.

I also met a copywriter, a whole different beast than what I am, but a person with an appreciation for words, written contact and a new fan of Yeni Nostlaji. Like me, he'd been happy to hear Christina say they were working on a new record of all-original music (and just as charmed when she said they were on "social media," purposely using finger quotes)

As I was walking out, it occurred to me how really lucky I am that I'd been invited to hear this gorgeous music in this acoustically-perfect room on this still-shaky night. Only a few familiar faces, but so much positive energy being given off.

My final stop was at Lucy's for dinner with a duo of Democrats a man and his sister-in-law a chef and an editor two steak eaters already embroiled in discussion of what has just happened to our country.

W agreed that surely one upside to all this turmoil will be a return to political activism on a wider level and more grass roots organization to address issues within our system.

Hoping to order something fast, I chose mussels in a broth of smoked paprika butter, garlic and white wine, but it was the one-two salt bomb of capers and crispy fried shallots on top followed by chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream that gave me faith in sunny tomorrows to come.

If there's a silver lining to having to deal with this nasty business, it's that I've adjusted to several very difficult things in my life, often alone, and at least this time, I'm in it with my friends and community.

Is it too soon to start singing "We Shall Overcome?"

Broken in a Complex Kind of a Way

The election of Donald Trump can be traced directly back to one thing: bad parenting.

If this election proves nothing else, it's that fully half the country lost sight of the absolute necessity for role-modeling for current and successive generations, or how else could they have willingly gotten behind a candidate who bullies and demeans women, gropes them and mocks the disabled, seeks out revenge and belittles those who disagree with him?

After much consideration, I have to assume that they must have been raised by wolves rather than by mindful parents aware of how their actions - public, private and political - would be read by young minds as an endorsement of an abominable man.

In these times of diminishing attention spans, fear of missing out and complete self-absorption, our new reality is that few have the desire or energy to worry about how their actions as a parent will resonate in the decades to come with the children who witnessed them.

Let's face it, the major challenge of being a parent is that it's a 24/7 role for a minimum of 18 years. Apparently we're no longer a culture that makes that kind of commitment to anything, even future generations.

Because it's 18 years of always crossing the street at the corner with the traffic light so that kids learn that it's not acceptable to break the rules simply because no one's looking. It's 18 years of not using foul language in front of children lest they think it's an acceptable form of expression. Eighteen years of always considering how what you do and say will mark the people you're raising.

Bottom line? Parenting is inconvenient and requires an inordinate amount of selflessness and who's got that to spare anymore?

That this has become the norm is the true crime here.

I can not believe that any parent who voted for Trump took into consideration the damaging message they were sending to their children by choosing this man, by treating him as worthy to run, much less lead or represent this country to the rest of the world.

We've shown future generations that a sociopath with no more credentials than a string of failed businesses, half a dozen bankruptcies and a reality show is good enough.

The bar has been lowered so far that it becomes inevitable that future candidates will also climb out of some primordial ooze with an entitled attitude and misogynist bent while no one bats an eye.

I thought yesterday was difficult because of the tension and worry of election day, but in retrospect, yesterday was a walk in Byrd Park compared to the reality of today's headlines. No one I know seems to have a handle on how to process it.

From my best friend in Texas who I'm trying to lure to Richmond...
WTF!!! How did this happen??? The morons who elected this egomaniacal ass wipe just did a grave disservice to our country and the world. It may be Canada instead of VA.

From my Mom, who's voted Democratic in every election since Adlai Stevenson...
I am past worried. I am stunned, appalled and every negative thing you can think of. Can you imagine him at  state dinner or a meeting of world leaders where he can't just lay down the law as he did as a CEO?  And what is going to happen to his supporters when he can't deliver the pie in the sky things he promised? Utter chaos.

From a smart musician friend looking for answers...
What a morning. Oh, I should probably check out your blog for enlightenment. Oh, nothing new yet. Understandable.

From Coalition Comedy Thetaer...
Free shows all this weekend. It's the very, very least we could do. We woke up to a bizarre reality this morning. We're offering the people of RVA a consolation; a much-needed distraction from the weird times we're trudging through. Let's take a break this weekend and just laugh, OK?

Given the state of the day, I felt grateful to already have plans to laugh with like-minded friends - three good people bound to be as dazed about this outcome as I felt - first for a killer dinner at L'Opossum (the foie gras! the oysters in absinthe fog! the hot black bottom!) and then with an inscrutable film noir, "The Big Sleep," ("She's a real sad tomato") at the Byrd.

In fact, all day long, I kept reassuring myself that friends and community will help us all get through whatever lies ahead. Part of the favorite couple who'd picked me up said he'd experienced much the same feeling of reassurance earlier.

There are denial, grieving and acceptance phases to navigate still, sure, but like sailors tossed overboard, all we can do is cling to something, even if it's just others who also grasp how deep the water is.

After being joined by our easy-going fourth, the mood lightened once we'd finished the post-mortem on the election results and the dinner plates were cleared. Or perhaps that was just the delirium of four desserts, more wine and a need to laugh so we didn't cry.

The Bogart and Bacall film also provided chuckles with the kind of witty, rapid-fire dialog that smart characters in '40-era films had while wearing pin-striped suits and satin dressing gowns.

Vivian: You go too far, Marlowe.
Marlowe: Those are harsh words to throw at a man, especially when he's walking out of your bedroom.

Two of us had never seen the movie before and the other two knew it well. The classic film managed to provide a fine distraction and even a dash of relevance.

Vivian: I don't like your manners
Marlowe: And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.

In a related note, I don't like what happened on election day. I didn't ask for this. I don't mind if you don't like my reaction. I don't know how to feel any other way. Things may get pretty bad.

And I know with complete certainty that we will grieve over this bizarre reality for many a long winter evening to come.

I am eternally grateful for fellow sad tomato friends who help me forget that for a while.

Women Bring All Voters Into the World

Unlike most people, I know the exact moment I first considered that a woman could be president.

It was in 3rd grade and it was during reading group that my teacher, Mrs. Gettle, brought up the subject of a woman as President. To my 8-year old brain, it didn't seem all that far-fetched, so when she told us to go home and ask our mothers what they thought of a woman President, I did.

I walked home from school (the norm then, but now considered "free-range parenting"), set my lunchbox on the counter and got busy on my assignment.

First, however, allow me to set the scene for you. My Mom, like all the mothers I knew back then, stayed at home to raise us and that was back during a time when mothers made their own formula, washed and dried their own baby diapers and cooked from scratch. I also had five sisters.

When I was in 3rd grade, I had a sister in 2nd grade, another in 1st grade, one that was 4, one that was 2 and a newborn baby sister. In retrospect, I'm amazed that Mom even took the time to answer my question, but she did.

It went something like this: "Karen, I can't imagine a woman being President because of all the other stuff she already has to do. She wouldn't have time to run the country!"

Dutifully, I reported her answer to my reading group the next day. The consensus from mothers was mostly negative, but Mrs. Gettle steered the discussion to the possibilities of such a thing in our lifetimes.

Flash forward to 2008 when Hillary and Obama were contenders and I brought up that conversation with my parents, causing my Mom to laugh and shake her head. No surprise she'd answered that way, she told me, given how far down the rabbit hole of old school motherhood she was at that point.

My Dad sat in his chair chuckling.

"Of course a woman could be President," my screaming liberal, politics-obsessed mother chided me. "I was just too busy with you girls to consider such a thing back then. I can't believe you remember that!"

So it was with that memory in mind that my clothes for today's historic election included a white t-shirt (because white was the color of the women suffragettes) that reads, "I Dream..."

At Carver Elementary where I vote, the long, serpentine waiting lines of 2008 and 2012 were replaced with people waiting to vote not in lines but sitting in the school auditorium's pint-sized chairs. On one side of me were three generations of a family, including one woman who'd gone to Carver. All were voting Hillary.

On the other was a young woman who'll graduate from VCU in December, with plans to teach elementary school in the city. I couldn't resist sharing with her how thrilled I was to finally get to vote for a woman for President, a fact which seemed like a far lesser deal to her, undoubtedly because of her age.

I shared how nervous I'd been about voting in my first election, somehow thinking I'd screw it up. She admitted to her own concerns about that and asked for direction on some of the down-ballot candidates. When I got called to the booth, I left her with a mantra: "Girl power!"

On my walk afterward, an older man on Marshall Street asked how I was. I'm great because I got to vote for a woman for President today, I told him and he smiled hugely, raising his fist in the air in the style of black activists. My fist followed.

Closer to home, a friendly repairman headed to his work van said hello, glanced at my shirt and asked, "You dream of what?"

This day. This opportunity to use my vote to elect a woman who not only has the time to run a country but a woman's mind and heart.

Thank you, Mrs. Gettle (wherever you are), for raising the possibility in a little girl's head.

A Single Sizzling Rivulet

Between today's discovery of the rape of Chapel Island and tomorrow's possible doomsday scenario, it only seemed prudent to plan a low-key evening.

What could be less demanding than a poetry reading and what could be more intriguing than the bookstore owner describing the poet as "William Blake in cowboy boots"?

Yes, please, give me a modern Romantic reading poetry on election eve. It certainly can't hurt.

With a one-time poet in tow, we headed to Fountain Books to settle into wooden church chairs to hear John Alspaugh read and ruminate on the writing life.

Before he got started, he explained why the evening would no longer be the multi-media experience it had been planned to be: the Kentucky musician who was going to play the sax on the street in front of the store while he read was unable to attend.

And while I mourned the loss of poetry set to saxophone, life goes on.

Alspaugh talked about rewriting a published poem and how sometimes it becomes necessary to just say goodbye to a poem and stop belaboring it. "Some poems won't leave me alone," he said about why he kept revising them.

First he explained the bible story of Salome for the benefit of the heathens in the room (not just me), then when he finished reading his poem, "Salome," or at least, tonight's version of it, he offered to autograph the ephemeral version. "I'll mail it to you with a stamp!" he promised with old school panache.

As he noted, there are people who have never mailed a letter to anyone in their lifetime. Talk about tragic.

Explaining that he now uses poems as part of his prose writing, he read the beginning of "Burning Man," with its references to being "entombed by clouds," followed by "Harmonies of an Echo," written while living in LA and alluding to "the lowing of distant trains."

I'll be honest, it's for entombment and lowing that I go to poetry readings in the first place.

Rather than stay and sip wine with the poet and audience members, we cut out after the reading. Since Laura Lee's had decided to make tonight the first Monday night they were open, we decided to show our support of another Monday eatery, always a good thing.

The bearded host greeted me with his usual bear hug, welcomed us in and led us to the last two bar stools while the Police played overhead on the sound system. I call Laura Lee's my kind of restaurant because the music is always set at just the right volume at the bar to have a deliberate presence.

Save me from wimpy volume music, now and forever, oh, primitive radio gods.

The wine was Sicilian (although labeled a product of Italy and you know the Sicilians hate that), the grape - Grillo - new to me and our starter a special of grilled baby octopus.

I followed that with the loveliest melange of crab meat, leeks and country ham with a green tomato relish over a Wade's Mill yellow corn cake, proving yet again that the Virginia trifecta of ham, crab and corn is one for the ages.

By then the music had switched to soul revivalists Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing about learning the hard way (join the club, honey) and I'd been greeted by a woman I'd met yesterday at the Bijou for the first time.

It was while I was working on a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate mint that our genial host brought over wine for us to taste from a customer who'd not only raved about it but brought him a bottle to try: Rockbridge "Jeremiah" Rose.

Friends know I'm a fan of Virginia wine (my "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt from the Roosevelt gets me compliments every time I wear it) and I've enjoyed the Rockbridge Cab Franc, but something about the bright green frog on the bottle gave us all pause.

I wasn't the first to pick out the flavor of Concord grapes (few are faster on the grape draw than the former poet), nor was I the first to wince at the foxy nose or cloying taste, but it was a group effort when it came to mocking the "mighty fine wine" of Jeremiah's namesake bullfrog.

Bet it's popular with the locals in Rockbridge County, though and isn't that what matters?

Well, sure, that and the country as we know it could end tomorrow. For multiple reasons, this optimist has her fingers crossed.

Don't Go Changin'

I'm not that crotchety old person standing on my lawn, shaking my fist at people, but I'm not happy, either.

On today's walk to Chapel Island, one of my favorite nature hangouts, Mac and I were met by large machinery blocking the path to the island's best overlook. Not yet sure what it signified, I posed atop the behemoth so she could snap my picture and we continued along, only to be greeted by a road.

This will only sound illogical to you if you've never been on Chapel Island. You see, the beauty of the place is how wild it's always felt, how completely separate from the goings-on of the city just across the canal.

Trails were narrow and often overgrown. After storms, saplings sometimes straddled pathways. During high summer, the vegetation was so thick you couldn't see the river that surrounded you. Spider webs and the occasional snake were the norm.

Hands down, my favorite part of the island was the overlook on the south side, complete with bench and prime views of Rockett's landing and small boat fisherman trolling the shore line. More than a couple of them even waved when they spotted life on Chapel Island.

Gone, all gone now. A chasm exists on the spot where once there was a place of reflection and vistas.

Oh, we walked around to investigate, amazed that in the relatively short time since our last visit to the island so much land had been moved, so many trees and bushes cut down. Spotting more machinery down the newly minted "road" that followed the river, we set forth in search of more clues.

All we found was more denuded landscape, more big machines and more disappointment that we'd heard nothing about the desecration of one of our favorite natural spaces in the entire city.

And it's not like I don't pay attention to such things - hell, we'd come to the island this morning directly from the Valentine's strategic planning charrette seeking input about the museum's future. I go to mayoral forums and coalition-building meetings at the drop of a hat. I did four weeks of a neighborhood charrette about what could be imagined at a significant corner of Jackson Ward.

You see, I'm that city-loving nerd who's willing to devote some of my spare time to sharing my opinion about almost anything going on in Richmond and Mac is much the same.

Yet here we were, jaws dropped, at one of our top walking destinations, looking at it like it had been subjected to bad plastic surgery since we'd last met.

We followed the road until we found access to the canal walk, but it was an unsettling experience. Sure, the views of the railroad trestles were great under I-95 (the century-old supports almost sculptural in their design) and we got several first-time river vantage points, but we'd left behind an unrecognizable island.

Once home, it didn't take long to find information saying that they're doing a significant expansion of the Shockoe Retention Basin as well as of riverfront access from the island.  It's all there in the Richmond Riverfront Plan, along with an amphitheater and a place to launch small boats.

Sorry, my heart's just not into it.

Chapel Island, all I can say is how grateful I am that I had these years of enjoying you in your natural state throughout the seasons, because I can't promise I'll be nearly as attracted to you once you're all tarted up.

Now get off my lawn.

In Our Minds and Hearts

Even after three decades here, I'm still discovering new places to plant myself.

At the Bijou, new were some (but not all) of the re-installed theater seats from the Westhampton Theatre, notable because it meant that we no longer have to abuse our asses with those ergonomically-incorrect white plastic chairs to see film of note.

Tonight's trivia question concerned Holly Hunter's role in the movie and we were instructed to signal when we spotted her. Bags of popcorn in hand, the small group at the 5:10 show settled in to the new seats, ready for what was to come.

Mostly, anyway. How anyone can watch that entire knife through the hand on the window sash scene without averting their eyes is beyond me. Just saying, I felt squirming on both sides of me.

The unexpected beauty of seeing a film you last saw 33 years ago when it was in first run is that it could almost be an entirely new-to-you movie this time around.

And I say "almost" because even with little to no memory of seeing "Blood Simple" in 1984, the film stands instantly recognizable as a Coen Brothers movie because everything they're known for now was fully formed and on display in this, their first film.

I had forgotten how perfectly lovely and very of-the-era 27-year old Frances McDormand looked, somewhere between Tony Tenille and Farah Fawcett. No wonder Joel Coen married her almost immediately.

Like all good '80s films, we saw men's blazer sleeves pushed up a la Miami Vice, as well as a man's shirt with only one button buttoned and far too much curly chest hair on display. But it was the geezer (M. Emmett Walsh's character) who showed his age by sporting a mustard yellow leisure suit with bell-bottom pants.

So completely un-hip by then.

The surprise was that apparently in '84, we were still tying up moving boxes with brown twine and, honestly, I'd have guessed that habit had long since been replaced with packing tape.

Midway through the film, I heard Holly Hunter's vice on an answering machine and signaled to win the evening's prize - two tickets to a future screening at the Bijou - a nanosecond before another woman in my row realized who it was.

After a mini-film discussion post-screening, I walked home in the dark, despite it barely being past 6:30. Autumn, I hate what you bring.

The newness in tonight's music adventure came not from the venue's name, Sound of Music Studio, because I'd seen bands at SoM on Foushee Street as well as at SoM on Broad Street, but tonight's SoM was on Altamont in the hipper-than-thou Scott's Addition 'hood.

I don't ask why they move, I just follow where the music goes.

When I arrived, I found two women bent over a map, one drawing and explaining Richmond to the other, who just moved here. When I saw she'd marked and labeled Short Pump, I took it upon myself to inform the newcomer that she had no need of venturing so far west.

Pointing to Willow Lawn and eastward, I assured her that all the life she needed could be found there, complete with Target on the far western fringes. What more could a person require?

She thanked me with wonder and gratitude in her eyes, or at least that's what I chose to tell myself.

A big reason I'd come was to hear Bad Magic, the musical project of Julie Karr, a guitarist and singer with a throaty voice and confessional delivery of whom I'd long been a fan but who used to do an acoustic solo act.

She was apologizing for her cold when I got there, saying, "The mic is gonna need a bacterial wash after this. That would be my advice!"

Behind the band, a dated film of roller bladers played, with occasional interview segments in front of a flag-draped fireplace.

Trying to decide what to play next, the band bantered about songs. "What's it called?" Julie asked the others, then turned to the crowd. "We named it in the computer, but not in our minds and hearts."

Turns out the song was called "Three" and had some terrific early Interpol-sounding guitar licks in it.

Between songs, she vented about the film behind her, saying, "I do not want to see a Confederate flag behind me again. Not at all. Can we make sure that happens? I do not want to see any more Confederate flags!" Since I'd already noticed the same thing, I appreciated her addressing it for the entire room.

Bad Magic rocks a lot harder than Julie solo did, making for an engaging set before she announced that Toronto's Greys, not local band Clair Morgan, were up next.

"That's what you do, you make a sandwich with the out of town band inside. Welcome to Richmond, we eat you!" she joked about being the rye bread slice to Greys' filling.

Their lead singer began by warning us that they were going to play a quick set and then start driving home. I only hope he meant after a god night's sleep.

Their sound pulled from decades of punk, primarily '90s, some of it crossing into thrash territory, some straight up pop punk and some indebted to the Pixies' alternating loud/soft dynamic. Violent head banging accompanied others while a light show rather than southern relics and tasteless flags played behind them.

"This is the last night of a really long tour," the singer said and his body language showed that he was feeling it, although the other three musicians seemed to be cranked up to 11, maybe as a sendoff for the tour's last show.

All kinds of audio issues kept Clair Morgan from playing right away, but feedback and dead mic problems were eventually resolved and Clair got right down to business, both musical and political.

"In a couple of days, there's going to be a thing." From nearby, someone shushed him. "No, I'm not going to stop. If you want to keep certain people out of the White House, please vote on Tuesday. If you're for Donald Trump, please vote November ninth!"

It's tough to argue with a man who writes such well-crafted songs about life and family and surrounds himself with solid talent, while a breathtaking car chase from Hitchcock's "Family Plot" plays behind them.

Could it be that the point was to remind us of the danger and treachery that lies ahead on Tuesday?

I think we can all agree, the entire country's going to need a bacterial wash after that.

Throwing Darts in Lovers' Eyes

When it's the last full day of sunlight before the dreaded return of Eastern Standard Time, a girl can't help but make the most of it.

First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.

It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.

The people like me.

Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.

I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.

From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.

Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.

Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?

The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.

Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.

About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.

This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.

Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.

Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.

I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.

Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.

"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.

As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.

While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.

Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.

This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.

We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.

Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.

After a decent interval, we ate some more.

In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball  and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.

We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.

Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.

Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").

Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.

"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.

I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."

Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.

By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.

With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."

It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.

The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.

But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.

Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.

The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.

Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.

The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.

Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"

So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.

Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.

Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.

As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.

Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.

Time of the Season

Belatedly I learn that Holmes is disinclined to read through numerous paragraphs of my blog posts just to get to the parts where I mention him.

So let's get right to it, shall we? When I announced that it was time for me to leave, my friend Holmes put a red vinyl 45 of the Damned's "Thanks for the Night" on the turntable in farewell. That's a good music friend.

There, unnecessary reading prevented.

My night began at Reynolds Gallery for Sally Bowring's opening of "Weather Report," nearly a dozen wooden panels capturing what Sally observed  - green Novembers, soft blue February skies, the pinks of summer - while going about her life over the past year.

To my eye, her glorious use of color makes it clear that the artist is female, observant and experienced.

Back on home turf, I head to Gallery 5 for "Wastedland," a gallery-wide installation by Andrew Shirley that begins with a mostly black tableau that was all about the audio/visual and shrouded in smoke.

Satellite dishes of varying heights, a cassette player, a weather radio, rabbit ear antennas, a megaphone, ladders and pendant lights were all spray painted matte black with occasional orange dribbles.

Behind it and nearly touching the ceiling was a sculpture, part sea creature, part spacecraft with interactive rolling wooden pieces. Spinning several in succession next to a stranger doing the same, we agreed it felt very child-like.

Going up the narrow stairs brought new challenges since each tread was at least 50% covered in crushed aluminum cans attached to the sides. Upstairs, pieces of corrugated boxes became animals on a wall staring out, while nearby was a cardboard shack with a blue tarp roof. Inside a TV showed mindless twaddle and was wallpapered with panhandler signs.

Jesus was a traveler
Passing thru, ALL love helps
Traveler Broke & Hungry
Lost in life, Looking for Direction

I spotted a male figure in overalls with a wolf head and paused ever so briefly to determine if he was real. Nope. Moments later, I had a surreal moment when I saw a man in overalls with a wolf head striding toward his inanimate twin.

But of course it's art.

In the center of the gallery, I spot an activist friend and without thinking, hug him hugely and offer condolences about the shared loss of our mayoral candidate. Behind me is another activist pal just as distraught.

We're all still feeling a bit shell-shocked at the news but with only three days till the election, feel the need to lay out our stands on alternate choices. None of us want a pawn but none of us desire a corporate whore, either.

There is banter about what role Baliles might be given in the new administration. It's crystal clear to us that he must have a significant one - "What we'll need is a Jedi Council of people who really know the city to help advise" the new administration, the PLF maestro concludes - and we three fervently hope Stoney sees the wisdom in this.

It's both depressing to talk about a mayor we wouldn't have chosen and comforting to think that there's enough of a groundswell to keep the focus on Richmond's creative strengths in whatever the next four years bring.

My final stop is, yes, at Holmes' humble abode, where we begin with a classic Mary Angela's dinner - green salad followed by his favorite pie, pepperoni and mushroom - enjoyed in the dining room listening to a recording of music he made with his brother and a friend decades ago.

A beautiful folk song comes on and Holmes blows us out of the water by sharing that the song had been recorded in that very dining room where we now sat, our fingers greasy with pepperoni oil.

"We hung a couple mics from over there," he says, pointing at the back window, "and had the mixer in there," gesturing past the pocket doors to the living room.

I don't know if I'll ever experience such a unique coincidence again in my lifetime or if I can properly convey how cool it felt to be hearing a song recorded where I sat.

After a proper chocolate dessert, we headed downstairs to where the turntable and monster speakers reside and Holmes promptly put on the Byrds.

"When I was in Paris in '65," he begins and we immediately tease him for his nonchalance, but he goes on to tell us how strongly he recalls being a teen with his own hotel room on family vacation hearing "All I Really Wanna Do" coming up a French alley from an unknown source where the 45 was on constant repeat.

Mais oui, that's one way to reach an impressionable young mind.

Good as it was, it was mere window-dressing for tonight's main event, the two-disc, four-side "Time of the Zombies," a 1974 song compilation that led off with "She's Not There" and Holmes' painful memory of attempting to sing that song at karaoke in Nags Head.

Apparently his range left a bit to be desired.

All four sides were fabulous, channeling everyone from the Beatles to Phil Spector to Herman's Hermits. I could have danced in my bar stool all nigh.

Most surprising was the Zombies' stellar cover of Gershwin's "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess," but I was in love with it all, from "Tell Her No" to "Time of the Season," a song Holmes said came out after the group had already broken up and which we listened to twice.

Along the way we discussed Beloved's first bikini, purchased for a Carnival cruise to the Bahamas in '77 and no doubt part of the reason she enjoyed the company of the ship's purser, Kurt during their time at sea.

Apparently her Mom had spotted Kurt just as the elevators doors were about to close and commented how nice-looking he was and her daughter had taken it from there.

Female spunk was big in '77, for those who weren't there.

The most charming part of the story sounded like a mere post script when she shared it. "He called me a couple of years ago." He what? "Yes, on the downstairs rotary phone."

Consider, if you will, that I know a woman who still has a rotary phone, not to mention the same phone number as 39 years ago and you can perhaps appreciate the rare birds among those known as "Karen's people."

For the record, since Kurt called, she's given up answering the rotary phone. She's not there.

Deep Calling Unto Deep

We must allow time tonight to revisit our discussion of the mayoral race given the withdrawal of the preferred candidate.

It's certainly been a heated topic of conversation all day long - at least for the scores of creative types and artists I know - after having our mellows harshed last night when our best chance at a truly good mayor evaporated when Jon Baliles fell on his sword to help prevent the election going to the pedophile.

Great, just great, now we're left with the slimy corporate sell-out complete with facial hair affectation or the pre-fab (just add water and watch him grow) come-here unable to speak beyond spouting the party line.

Sigh.

But since we already had plans to see a play, there was no reason not to spend some quality conversational time on the state of the mayor's race, among other things, when we met for dinner at Saison Market.

I'd been given my instructions to order for both of us if I arrived first - "based on our previous dining experiences, I know you have good taste" - but I didn't, so ordering temporarily fell by the wayside once I did walk in, self-identifying hibiscus blossom in hand.

The problem is that once you start examining a topographic map with a geologist is that before you know what hit you, you'll be knee-deep in igneous and metamorphic rock formations, so busy talking that by the time you order, there's about 20 minutes remaining to inhale a whole lot of food.

I'm talking pork pozole, warm and spicy; spirited seafood escabeshe of shrimp, fluke, mussels, carrots, radishes and jalapenos with hushpuppies; addictive fried brussels sprouts; and cast iron cornbread for good measure.

Someone's eyes were bigger than our minimal dinner time slot, that's all I'm saying.

In reality, the problem was not so much the short window to eat as it was all the topics that kept burbling up to the surface as we kept focusing on conversation rather than chewing.

All I can say is, good thing the theater was barely a block away. Even so, we were those people picking up tickets at 7:58 and sliding into our seats moments before Cadence Theatre's production of "John" began.

The elaborate set of the downstairs of a fussy and fusty Victorian-looking B & B set the scene for a play about how difficult it is to communicate effectively, much less ever really know someone.

But, as one character put it looking around at the object-filled cutesy rooms, it was also the "tragedy of the bed and breakfast."

Along the way, a blind woman explained why she'd committed herself to an institution ("The thing about being crazy is, it can also all be true"), another raved about "the great Ferlin Husky" as if everyone recognized the name (I did, but that's not the point) and a whiny millennial couple dealt with the unraveling of their relationship.

Where the play shone was in the completely believable language between the characters, which sounded natural and unsure like actual conversation, rather than measured and assured like play-writing too often does.

One of the most beautiful moments came when the innkeeper explained that for amusement, she'd memorized the terms for collections of birds, the phrases rolling off her tongue like poetry.

A congress of crows
A troubling of hummingbirds
A colony of gulls
A siege of herons
A mustering of storks
A tiding of magpies
A wisdom of owls
A charm of finches
A cast of falcons
A raft of loons
An exaltation of larks...

Understandably, that last one had  been her favorite for the sheer joy it conveyed.

That this Obie Award and Drama Desk Award play ended with anything but a neat, happy ending only solidified its place as a story that hews closer to real life than a convenient tying up of loose ends into a pretty bow ever could.

Because whose life ever really works out that way?

Returning to Saison Market afterward for sherry, Rose and a final dissection of "John" also provided an opportunity to dig deeper on personal histories, Hull Street taquerias and life lessons learned while a warm rain fell steadily outside.

Although "John" had already taught us that you can't ever really know someone, to be human is to try, right?

All in all, an adventure full of exaltation...minus the larks and as charming as the finches.

Thank Your Lucky Stars

All the usual suspects - dinner, music - and watching cultural history made, too!

An hour drive on a sumptuously sunny and atypically warm November day landed us on the patio at Public Fish & Oyster in Charlottesville under trees shedding leaves on the table, the chairs and the patio.

It was a fine seasonal touch completely out of sync with the wildly warm weather.

At the top of the chalkboard oyster menu was a siren bivalve that combined a long-time favorite place with my preferred level of brininess. The Hatteras Salts were delicious but not nearly as salty as expected, but Public gets no points from me for serving them with two lame options: cocktail sauce and red wine vinegar rather than a proper mignonette or even horseradish.

Where they did score points was with the solid advice on a sign in the ladies' room reading, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together" ~ Elizabeth Taylor.

I immediately re-applied lipstick and returned to the table in time for a delivery of Sinols Rosato, an easy drinking Spanish pink. I was as together as I was going to get.

Dinner of an autumn salad loaded with arugula, pomegranate, apple, fennel, candied nuts and hunks of creamy Mycella Bleu was a winning way to eat Fall, while roasted Mission figs with Caramont Farms chevre, almond and honey was downright decadent. And while the lobster meat was plentiful, the overly dense roll containing that meat on my lobster roll was a questionable choice.

I barely finished my totally predictable flourless chocolate torte dessert when we we changed location to a bar table at Fitzroy, the better to catch the start of the final game of the World Series.

The funny part is, if you were to ask anyone who knows me, friend or family, they'd have likely taken a bet that I would most definitely not be watching a baseball game tonight or any night.

Oh, ye of little faith.

We were only able to watch an hour of it before heading over to the Jefferson Theater at 9:00 for the reason we were in the mountains in the first place: Beach House.

I've got a long history with this dream pop band, having seen them as openers back in 2007 at the Norva (can't recall the headliners, though), having bought a ticket to see them in Charlottesville in May 2012 and then not gone, and then seeing them for the first time as headliners in September 2012.

The floor was getting crowded when I took up my usual post near the sound booth, finding a fan to chat with within spitting distance (of course I didn't verify that ability).  Unlike my nine-year history with the band, he'd only discovered them a year and a half ago, necessitating him going back to investigate their full discography.

His conclusion was that "Teen Dream" was their masterpiece, a conclusion long-time fans already agreed upon.

When I asked him about his first show, he said it had been Blink 182 ("I know, old school, right?" says this guy who couldn't have even been a gleam in his Daddy's eye when the band formed in '92) with My Chemical Romance, a band I'd also seen back in 2008 (although technically, I'd gone for the opener, Muse).

Like the previous Beach House shows, there are a few rules. Minimal light on the band, minimal between-song banter. They're here to play and nothing more. Like 2012, they teased us with gems from "Teen Dream" such as "10 Mile Stereo" and "Take Care," although this tour, they're leaving out the more bombastic "Norway." Pity.

They did one song they hadn't played in three years "from the set list you all contributed to," a fact of which I'd been unaware. Had I known I could put in my two cents' worth, you can be assured I would have.

With no opening act and no chit-chatting with the crowd, we were in and out of the Jefferson Theater in an hour and a half and back at the Fitzroy to catch the end of the baseball game in a room that seemed to be evenly split between rabid Chicago and Cleveland fans.

Feeling optimistic, we weren't the only people in the room to order a bottle of bubbly.

When the game ended tied and had to go to extra innings and then a rain delay, we stayed, despite the hour drive still ahead. How do you walk away from watching a team trying to make up for 108 years of failure?

Not to mention that Aroldis Chapman was some kind of cute with that smile of his.

One of the more satisfying aspects about watching the game was knowing that out on the Northern Neck, my octogenarian parents were undoubtedly still up, too, cheering a team none of us usually care about but who certainly seem to have earned their post-midnight moment in the sun.

Presumably without the drink or the lipstick, they'd pulled themselves together admirably. All I'd done was cheer and clap.

Hey, Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs have gone and won today.

Biscuits for Sale

When trying to market our fair city to visitors and new arrivals, it only makes sense to tailor the message to the intended audience.

And not in an obvious way, say, "Richmond is Rainbow-Friendly!" but in more of a "Virginia is for ALL Lovers" manner that shows a bit of subtlety. Target your audience and speak to them in their language.

So if you were attempting to attract theater-loving types, one sure-fire way to alert them to what a thriving and stellar theater scene awaits them here would be to simply say, "This is a town that produces "Mother Courage and Her Children."

Because, despite Bertolt Brecht's play being considered the greatest play of the 20th century and easily the finest anti-war play ever written, let's get real here: almost no one produces it.

Yet here we are, with the reliably adventurous TheatreLAB (because who else would have done it, a rhetorical thought I noted in chalk on the bathroom wall before the action even began tonight) leading off their season with this epic and thoroughly immersive play.

Going down the rabbit hole of the Thirty Years War began when Mac and I walked in the door and, along with a guy in line behind us, were directed to a nearby soldier (the quarter mistress) issuing "kits" - a folding chair and a list of instructions, including specifications on staying inside the green lines on the floor.

A drill sergeant hammered in directions for what to do when "About face!" "Left face!"or "Right face!" was screamed at us (it involved moving our entire chairs in that direction) throughout the show.

In the name of Style Weekly's Best of Issue, I once dubbed TheatreLAB the "most shape-shifting theater space" and tonight it could have also been labeled "most malleable focal point" for its constant shifts in action.

All that chair turning resulted in the sound of clattering empty bottles knocked over in the dark every time the group moved en masse to see what the Catholics and the Protestants ("Cooks have an intellectual bent, unlike clergy") were doing to each other next.

It was eerie how contemporary the 77-year old play managed to feel.

When one of Mother Courage's sons asked of her, "Mother, may I smack him in the puss?" about a recruitment officer baiting him, some of the younger audience members gasped at the word "puss," as if it were related to where the Republican nominee feels free to grab.

Alright, listen up, kids: the puss is located much higher on the body than that other feline-nicknamed body part. Got that?

When the lights came up at intermission, the buzz was palpable. The man next to us - who'd come from Charlottesville to see the production - the people behind us, everyone was sharing how utterly caught up and enthralled they were with what we'd seen so far.

Like me, few had seen it before.

Appropriating rap, folk and popular music to underpin Brecht's song lyrics, the play's soundtrack couldn't have felt more modern. That the actors were accompanied by piano, guitar and violin only added to the musical punch (and my theory that some people don't get handed just one talent, but many).

Boomie Pedersen was a marvel as Mother Courage, shoring up one child while praising another for being honest, if stupid, constantly focused on making a living off the contents of her cart, a fanciful looking thing that was wheeled from one side of the Basement to the other.

Director Keri Wormald made sure it was tough to like Mother's character but impossible not to be impressed with her ability to keep on keeping on, no matter how many children she lost to the decades of fighting that sustained her and her family.

A potent reminder of the price paid in war, the riveting play delivered a powerful message without beating the audience over the head with it and ended with scrolls being dropped sharing the toll of war in terms of financial cost, sexually transmitted diseases, traumatic stress disorder and more unsettling realities.

Who does that? Who delivers a fabulous performance of an important yet under-produced play and then closes it out by further stunning the audience with facts and figures about the continuing cost of war?

TheatreLAB, duh. No longer an upstart, they have fully arrived.

Can the legions of theater fans be far behind?

Confessions of a Tardy Filmgoer

I remember my first All the Saints Halloween party like it was yesterday and not 2008.

The responsibility of carrying one of puppet-maker Lily's hefty creations. The recognition of familiar faces among the barely 50 or so marchers. The scattered Oregon Hill-ites who deigned to sit on their porches and watch. The simplicity of it all.

With each subsequent year I became part of the parade - 2009, 2010, 2013, 2014 - I fine-tuned the experience.

No more puppets for me (too heavy) but I can work a banner or sign all night long. Dress lighter than you think you need to in order to compensate for carrying weighty objects and near non-stop walking. Wear comfortable shoes.

One of the high points is always organizer Lily coming by in her painted skeleton face and white satin robe to squeal my name, tell me she loves me and thank me for coming.

This year, I had three people with me (two marching, one paralleling the parade with canine in tow) gaping at costumes, admiring myriad skeleton window coverings and getting a front row view of the eclectic audience (an outhouse, a guy in a barrel going over the falls, Elvis with a spangled cape and gold platforms) for the funeral march for the demons of the day.

But as the parade has also taken on a life of its own with masses of spectators, I've also had to adjust to it.

A continuous mega-watt smile is essential because at practically every step, people are taking our picture or shooting video. It's a truly weird experience if you're not used to it.

The crowds viewing the parade currently begin at Monroe Park where the parade is staged and started, when we used to not see crowds until we were across Cary and headed into the bowels of O-Hill.

We somehow lucked into being behind a bagpiper, making for some inspiring marching music as we made our way toward the river, a stiff breeze reminding us how close we were. When he'd give his cheeks a rest, I could hear No BS Brass band playing in front of me or Lobo Marino or the Zombie String Band behind us.

Despite being an air sign, this year I led the "water" section of the parade with my blue sign reading, "Water," just behind the Goddesses contingent (Bruno was the Goddess of Old Friends while the goddess of twerking did exactly that, causing an O-Hill resident standing next to her kids in the bed of a pick-up to ask rhetorically, "Is she jacking off under there?") and at the start of the Elements groupings, just behind the tooth fairy waving the purple banner perilously close to our heads.

My sign was read by enough people that I got used to hearing such things called out as, "Gotta have water!" and, "We all need water!" as I passed by with it high in the air, working every muscle in my arms while Mac waved an upside down banner next to me.

Two women dressed as Peter Pan flitted in a zigzag pattern throughout the length of the participant line toward the front while a guy on a BMX bike tried to ride through it against the grain. When we got down to make the U-turn near the overlook, the tooth fairy turned and pointed back at the scores of marchers coming down the hill toward us.

"Look at how many people!" It truly was an impressive mass of humanity.

As we walked up Pine Street, I spotted the outline of chef David Shannon against L'Opossum's kitchen door, a huge grin on his face. But of course a man with bad clown paintings in his bathroom would appreciate the oddities of this parade.

Those oddities were nothing compared to Gallery 5's holiday offering, "The Thingy: Confessions of a Teenage Placenta," part of the Troma film series and half of tonight's Halloween double feature. Except that the film was listed as starting at 9:30 and when we arrived at 9:20, it was already in progress.

To be honest, I hate it when I miss the beginning of a film, much less the beginning of a Belgian horror/comedy film with little discernible plot and no way of catching up, but we gave it our all.

Luke the placenta was coming of age and  made squishy noises wherever he went, left a slime trail behind him and used his umbilical cord to paste pictures from cigarette packs in his scrapbook.

He was the sweetest teenage placenta a mother could hope for.

But why did Mom have one giant overly-muscular arm? Who was Luke's mysterious father, anyway, Darth Vader? Why did his first date bite him ravenously after kissing him? Why did the priest torture Luke by tickling him (and, yes, it's torture, my Mom always said tickling was a form of torture)? Who thought a dog nursing at the breast of a woman was anything but repellent?

And why, oh, why, did Luke have to shoot all the newborns in the hospital nursery?

Because it's a Troma film, because the violence is so cartoonish, because...probably because of something that happened in those first 20 minutes we missed.

Placentas come and go, but the real accomplishment here is me getting my sixth Halloween parade notch on my belt, as always, marching to the beat of a different Halloween drummer.

Costume not required, attitude a plus.

Walking This Way All Day

Indulge me for a moment while I dream about this nearly perfect weather.

If there's a place that regularly has 80-degree days like today's as the norm for late October, can you please tell me where that magical place is? Days like this make me almost (but not quite) sorry that I slept until 11:00 because so little sunny time remains once I'm finally up.

After breakfast (okay, so it was 12:30), I walked to Carytown under an umbrella (once again fighting the stigma of parasol shame) to meet Pru, Beau and Burger for some classic Mel Brooks. I'd invited not one but two others, both of whom turned me down, only to learn at dinner last night that the trio had their own plans to attend.

Along the way, I pass a man on his front porch fluffing pillows. Asking why more people don't do the same, he answers, "I have no idea. They must not know how good a pillow smells after it's spent an afternoon outside."

This is a stranger who knows wise things. My pillows are immediately slated for a time-out on my balcony tomorrow.

My posse is waiting for me at the Byrd, Pru with assorted sizes of Tootsie Rolls in hand like the good friend that she is, to see "Young Frankenstein" and her first question once the lights go down and the title comes up is, "When's the last time you saw this movie?"

Answer: some time during the last millennium in a galaxy far, far away.

And though the film was made in 1974, period details make it seem older: a man's socks with garters, references to Tinker Toys and Ovaltine. College students actively engaged in class and not looking at their screens.

I'm nothing short of amazed at how many lines from this movie are not just part of standard pop culture references today, but are also family standards. When Igor tells Dr. Frankenstein, "Walk this way," I'm reminded of my Mom who uses this phrase before walking awkwardly nearly every time I visit.

For that matter, I have a sister who dredges up, "Two nasty-looking switches there but I'm not going to be the first," every time she sees a coupe of light switches next to each other. We all overuse, "Put ze candle back!" in my family to signify a bad choice and it's been 40 years.

"Taffeta, darling" was code for I'm all decked out, so don't mess with me (just ask any of the husbands in the family).

Favorite line: "Seven or eight quickies and then you're out with the boys to boast and brag. You better keep your mouth shut! Oh, I think I love him!"

Bottom line: "Young Frankenstein," despite just as much corny and '70s male humor as I recalled, holds up with some truly stellar performances, gorgeous black and white photography and the comedic script-writing chops of Brooks and Wilder.

That the screening was also a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society adds a layer of philanthropy to laughing with friends for two hours.

On the way home, I walk around a pizza delivery guy wearing a t-shirt, flannel pants and fuzzy slippers. I'm pretty sure he was delivering pies in his pjs in this glorious weather.

From an afternoon in Transylvania (where, I noted, all the townspeople had distinct British accents), it was on to an evening in Courtempierre, France (where vampires roam), two fitting nods to the season of slutty tacos (yes, a friend actually saw that costume).

Take it from someone who knows, the difference between the Silent Music Revival of 10 years ago and tonight's comes down to one thing: ear filler.

Where once a roll of toilet paper was torn, wadded and shared for earplugs, on the 10th anniversary, we had actual orange earplugs distributed to the capacity crowd.

Given my 9-year devotion to the SMR, I felt no shame in showing up way early and putting "reserved" cards on two chairs to hold places for tonight's 10th anniversary part one celebration.

Called out on it when we arrived, organizer Jameson laughed about it, confirming that he had no issue with me pulling rank to save seats (and not even comfortable seats, but those awful folding chairs at Gallery 5).

Long-time friendship has its privileges.

"Vampyr" from 1932 got a soundtrack courtesy of reunited noise-rock duo Navi, who managed to take an incredibly dark film and improvise to it magnificently, in part because Jameson had sped up the film by 21%, the better to marry it with the band's frenetic musical energy.

Sitting there for nearly an hour watching this classic horror film and its fabulous soundtrack, it was tough not to flash back to those early Silent Music Revivals with a fraction of the number of people and toilet paper in our ears to staunch the bleeding.

Like our grandparents having to walk uphill in a snowstorm five miles to get to school, some of us sat on hard store floors for nine years to make 2016's cushy-in-comparison SMR possible for those just now learning the pleasures of silent film set to local bands.

Feel free to thank me in person at part two of the 10th anniversary celebration come December.

Strolling from Gallery 5 afterward to Lucy's for a sandwich pop-up, we ran into two guy friends of mine just leaving and pumped them for recommendations. Inside, the place was nearly full-up with earnest-looking bearded types, a few more familiar faces and a smattering of Halloween costumes.

That's the beauty and/or problem with a Monday Halloween: the celebration starts Friday and rolls through for four consecutive nights, leaving broken glass on sidewalks and streets (at least here in J-Ward), shards of jack-o-lanterns everywhere and bits of costume (although I'm not entirely sure why I've also spotted two pairs of underwear) shed in the heat of the moment.

At some point, a person's bound to get tired of wearing a fake crown and toss it on the sidewalk, or so it would seem.

Tonight's sloppy sandwich pop-up provided the perfect late-night noshes - a manly Philly cheese steak and a more delicate but overloaded sensational seafood salad (and by that, I mean fake crab) sandwich dusted with flying fish roe inside a split hot dog roll - to accompany glasses of Rose and a dissection of the holes in the plot of "Vampyr."

After a stint at the bar watching the tail end of the World Series, we packed it in and headed out into the still-warm night, although the occasional rogue raindrop told us that a change of weather fronts was in the works. Sadly.

Mother Nature, put ze candle back!

It Always Comes Back to Star Trek

Anyone close to me has, in all likelihood, alluded to my sunny side up affliction.

The go-to is derision. Pru calls it "unicorn land," another prefers "Karen's world" (art nerds, can't you just see me from the back on that grassy hill like Christina?), several family members call it "the bubble," and, sure, they're mocking me, but the reality is lovely things happen there all the time.

Like an evening during the absolute dregs of October - today's the 29th, for crying out loud - spent on a screened porch in Church Hill, a porch lit by strings of tiny lights and a small lamp or two, with the night air as soft and comfortable as if we were about to tear September off the calendar rather than October.

An evening accompanied by the business of life going on around us - dogs being walked, sirens in the distance, headlights in the alley - as the five of us converse across the table in the golden glow of that porch, where everywhere you look, something pleasurable or interesting catches your eye.

A master class of a porch.

The kind of space ideal for Pru to share a memory. "That reminds me of 10th grade when I said 'semen' instead of 'stamen." Pause. "It was the male part of the plant, so at least I got that part right."

That prch can become a cozy game room when the visitor from Arizona, Burger, admits he's never played Cards Against Humanity during dinner at Belmont Food Shop (where an autumn terrine of squashes, celery root and carrot rocks my world and chocolate truffles are referred to by FabCon as "tip manipulators" because they work).

It's once the game's underway, after we explain that you choose your answer from the ten cards in your hand that we learn Burger has 12...and a stack splayed out under his chair for easy accessing. Political commentary follows.
Q: In today's newscast, Donald Trump made headlines when he denounced what?
My A: The Dewey Decimal system
Peanut Gallery: He would.

With big, comfortable wicker chairs with cushions, it's a most suitable place for long-winded ruminations on language.

When Beau tries to explain the appeal of Hannah Montana, it's by saying she was wholesome and had hi-jinks. Hi-jinks, a word that dotted the Eisenhower-era series we read as kids. Nancy Drew had hi-jinks, the Hardy Boys had hi-jinks.

This crowd could do a minimum of 10 minutes just on a word like that.

As proof, earlier on the porch, we'd gotten on the topic of unlikely building materials, a rabbit hole that began with bales of hay, moved on to used car tires and crashed and burned with 2-litre soda bottles.

Why, you ask, did such a fascinating environmental and architectural topic die that premature death? Because some people brought only the veneer of information to the table and once others of us began digging, they admitted to no further knowledge on the subject than the shred they'd already hurled into the fray.

Don't come to a conversational pit unless you can hold your own.

The porch is just dim enough on a Saturday night for indelicate admissions.
Q: In the new Disney Channel original movie, "Hannah Montana Struggles with what?
My A: A really nasty yeast infection
Beau: I'd watch that.
Pru: Who ARE you?

It's the first time on this practically perfect porch for the dry wit from Philly now languishing in the southwest, who after observing the bossy and bossed dynamic between the usual cast of characters, thinks he's got it all figured.

"Ooooh, I see, it's a dominatrix party!" He only wishes (fervently, too).

Tonight, Bootleg Shakespeare (cue "There's something happening here, What it is ain't exactly clear") was performance art (none of it as riveting or hilarious as a pants-less BC Maupin as Brutus and a kneeling Sara Heifetz as Portia having a, shall we say, intimate moment) allowing an impromptu party to kick off early.

If memory serves, I lectured a man on italics (they are to be read aloud more emphatically), Pru got poetic with Burger ("We can't make plans with your "ifs") and Beau used the third person to feed me verbiage for this post ("Who knew that Beau was a mouth dispenser virgin?" about never having squirted whipped cream or E-Z Cheese in his mouth).

Middle-aged hi-jinks, as fine a way as any to spend an October evening on a screened porch with a great aura. Kind of makes me want to sing a song about Nebraska.

Out There versus Not

Musical karma, that's what it is.

I'm talking about that thing that happens when you first discover a new band or someone tells you about a terrific band and then, bam! You find out they're about to play nearby, so you can indulge your new-found interest or appreciation almost immediately.

It was kind of like that tonight.

When last the Barrister and I met, we'd naturally talked music and he'd brought up a new-to-me local band, Paulo Franco (and the Freightliners, as it turned out), saying he was fond of their sound.

The very next morning, he messaged to share that he'd been reading Style and seen that they were playing Friday night.

Horse trading of a sort ensued because my plan was to take in some seasonal comedy at the Coalition Theatre, specifically "Vincent Price's Late Night Horror Program," so I agreed to go to hear Paulo if he'd come be horrified with me.

A deal was struck and we made plans to meet at Saison Market, which only became problematic when I arrived there to find an absent Barr and that no food was being served because, yet again, Restaurant Week had reared its ugly head.

The former situation was rectified when I found him drinking brown liquor at Saison's bar where we toasted his new-found qualifications in the Peach State which, we agreed, he need not exercise immediately. The latter problem was solved with fish tacos from Tarrant's back door, eaten at a table pre-set for Restaurant Week overflow guests because a server insisted we do so.

Fortified, we crossed the street to be spooked.

In the grand tradition of bad Vincent Price variety shows, we found good seats in a sold out room for a series of laugh-worthy episodes. The show's delayed start gave us time to exchange information that people who have only laid eyes on each other three times in a life time are not yet privy to.

Fact: before Barr embraced the law, it was geology that floated his boat. He, in turn, said he wouldn't have figured me for a Terrapin. We discovered a mutual admiration for the National.

We ceased our blather when the show finally began.

When the impeccably dressed Vincent - in silky shirt and ascot - wanted to summon the spirit of Poe, Player's cheesy "Baby, Come Back" blared from the speakers, inadvertently summoning Ellen Adger Poe in period attire by mistake.

She was far less melancholy than her brother.

Then the Paranormal Sisters of Kalamazoo spotted ghosts around the room and brought people onstage to explain their presence.

Dakota thought one angry ghost might have been his great-great-great grandfather, a restaurateur who prohibited certain kinds of guests from eating in his restaurant.

"You mean he was racist?" one sister asked of poor Dakota. "Just say racist! You think we haven't talked to a racist ghost before? We're in Richmond!"

The other Kalamazoo sister contacted the dead by having sex with them. Onstage while we watched and listened.

"Has anyone seen an apparition of the Virgin Mary appearing in front of them? No? Just me?"" her sister asked the crowd before finding a guy who'd lost his Aunt Frenchy because she was old.

Vincent returned wearing a pink-trimmed apron that read, "Kill the Cook" to demonstrate a recipe for candy corn from his new cookbook that involved teeth and shaved corns, the kind from feet.

The master of horror was especially adept at bad horror puns. "Can you necro-feel the love tonight?' he asked to groans, and, "Don't let me slip up carrying this Edger Allen Po-dium."

A segment involving a cursed camera had two characters frantically thumbing through to look up something in an imaginary Yellow Pages, causing the girl to crack wise with millennial humor. "Man, won't it be great one day when we can just look stuff up?"

Which is, of course, exactly what she was pretending to do, but she didn't see it that way.

"Fly versus Fly" had Vincent challenging Jeff Goldblum to an obstacle course to prove who was the better fly, while offering Goldblum a chance to ramble on about nothing and everything, to Vincent's great consternation.

Perhaps because I'm a fan of his demeanor, it had never occurred to me how easy it would be to imitate Goldblum's distinctive delivery and detours.

The final segment was a "Match Game" parody with celebrity guests such as Chris Rock, Katherine Hepburn, pro wrestler Macho Man, the part French/part Spanish designer Phillippe, and Obi Wan Kenobi.

Questions involved such burning issues as what First Man Bill Clinton can't wait to install in the White House (a stripper pole, the Force, a zero-gravity bidet) as well as cultural commentary, such as Chris Rock's answer to how Target bathrooms could be divided ("There are no Targets in the 'hood").

By the time the show ended, people were crowding the lobby and sidewalk out front for the 10:00 show and we had two miles to cover to access my companion's needs for the evening half of the deal.

He'd already scored a table in front when I walked in during the first song of Paulo's second set, demonstrating impeccable timing on our part. With his rose-colored glasses, Paulo bore a distinct resemblance to Jerry Garcia and his four-piece played a tight set for a diminishing crowd.

Although new to me, Barr was hoping for a few songs from Paulo's latest album.

Too bad about the smaller crowd because the songs were compelling, whether they were murder ballads, sung in Spanish (Paulo is Colombian), or when they were his wife's favorite (because it was about his ex-wife).

That three of the band members sang added a lot to their sound.

Returning from the bathroom, Barr told of a guy's peculiar hygiene habits and I, naturally, passed judgment on the unseen miscreant. "You're okay if we can talk bathrooms," the Barrister informs me.

Wait, he's just now deciding I'm okay? "It shows your range," he corrects himself.

I said good night to the last of my tequila as Paulo and the boys finished out their set, wistfully singing, "Good night, whiskey, mend my broken heart."

That's karma for you, book-ending the evening with brown liquor and song.

We've Come a Long Way, Baby

This chair's for you, my imaginary friend.

Billie Jean King came to town, but this is really the story of a friendship that began in the mid '70s, right around the time that the legendary tennis player was showing herself to be a force to be reckoned with on many fronts.

An unlikely pair (and both Geminis, at that) who met during college, she was sporty and I was girly. She was athletically talented and I uncoordinated. She was a lifelong California girl, me, pure east coast. She hated me on sight.

Once we got past her youthful mis-perceptions, we became the yin to each other's yang, with sufficient shared enthusiasms to always make for a good ride. It was so comfortable that we knew early on we'd be lifelong friends.

Yet, somehow, we've lived in the same state for exactly two years. Or, more precisely, only two years.

We met, we had two wonderful years together and ever since, there have been multiple states in between us. Letters flew back and forth pre-Internet. Years would pass between visits, but we always reverted to instant familiarity.

Back when we met, she was an avid tennis player, even attempting fruitlessly to coach me in playing (I had no interest in the game, but coveted a cute strapless tennis dress) and naturally, BJK was a role model for what a woman could accomplish.

So when I walked over to the Seigel Center tonight to hear Billie Jean King speak as part of VCU's celebration of 40 years of LGBTQ activism, I knew my friend would have enthusiastically accompanied me if she weren't living in some far away Republican state.

Which is why when I chose a seat, I put my bag on the next seat as if I were saving it for someone, which I was, but more in spirit than reality. She'd have blended right in, too, because as the redhead in front of me observed looking around, "I expected it to be all middle-aged women."

My guess would be about 70%, but we're talking about an iconic '70s role model and women's rights activist, so that's hardly surprising. It would've been embarrassing if we hadn't represented.

After introductory remarks, we saw a video of photos, clips and sound bites (inexplicably set to the Rolling Stones and Dandy Warhols, and while the latter stole plenty of guitar riffs from the former, it's still an unlikely combination to soundtrack a tennis hero's bio), my main takeaway being how incredibly lithe, agile, fluid and altogether air-born she looked in so many of the old photographs.

Just as the video was ending, the woman who needed no introduction strode out smiling, looking 73-year old fabulous in sassy red glasses and a fuchsia jacket over black pants with her brown hair stylishly short.

Instant standing ovation. Just as instant, a fervent wish that my friend was here to experience it with me.

Taking to the stage, she began with a history of significant events in LGBTQ history, sort of a primer for those unaware, reminding us of the importance of history in our lives today.

She shared stories from her childhood about how her parents never pressured her or her brother about sports, yet both grew up to be professional athletes. "I think that's why my brother and I liked the pressure so much."

In fifth grade, Susan Williams asked her to play tennis and BJK had no idea what it was. After her second tennis lesson, she decided she wanted to be the best tennis player in the world.

In 1970, she and 8 other women signed $1 contracts to create the women's professional tennis league, with the vision that any girl who was good enough had a place to compete and could make a living playing tennis.

Helluva vision.

That's when the whole male chauvinist Bobby Riggs battle of the sexes nonsense started up and he wound up playing one of the nine women, trouncing her. BJK was next in his sites.

Here she paused in her talk to give some context to the time for the students in the audience.

"This was 1973. The war in Vietnam was winding down, but it never really did" - and here she deservedly scolded us as a nation for our treatment of returning Vietnam vets - "Watergate was just cranking up and a woman couldn't get a credit card in her own name, only her husband's!"

Audible millennial gasp from the crowd. Zinger from the star: "And why would they do that when  they know how much we love to shop?"

And here's where she set their brains ablaze. "The first portable phone came out that year, just as most of us were switching from rotary to touch-tone phones, and it weighed 2 1/2 pounds, you could only talk on it for 30 minutes and in order to do so, you had to charge it for ten hours!"

There were two reactions from the younger set: either their eyes glazed over or they laughed out loud. The middle-aged women nodded.

"I told the others I had to play him! The match was about social justice, not a paycheck!" Can't you just see her getting all riled up, raising her tennis racket over her head like the Arthur Ashe statue on Monument Avenue?

Perched behind the podium was a racket and BJK wasn't ten minutes in before she picked it up and never put it back down, her security blanket, moving from hand to hand.

She stuck her fingers through the criss-cross pattern as she spoke about being publicly outed by an ex-lover in '81, causing her to lose all her endorsements overnight. Theirs was the first "galimony" lawsuit, yet her husband wouldn't give her a divorce. Her parents were homophobic and she hated the shame-based life she was leading.

I tell you what, this would have made a highly successful nighttime soap opera at the time.

Our shero ended with advice to millennials, which would probably serve all of us well:
Be a problem solver
Relationships are everything
Stay informed and keep learning
Be your authentic self

Fascinating as her talk was, it got even better afterward when she dismounted the stage and walked in front of the seats answering questions submitted by the audience.

Did she ever think she'd lose to Bobby Riggs? Every day, all day.

Asked about diversity, she said she prefers the term equality ("It's like the '70s, we used to talk about equality. It's back!") because it doesn't focus on our differences.

Her advice to women was to use their body by harnessing its abilities.

When my question (Why do you think so many college students today resist being labeled a feminist?), she answered, "I do not know why that is, but if you believe in equality, you are a feminist whether you're male or female."

I felt equal parts pleasure that my question was asked and satisfaction at her succinct rebuttal.

The last question was from the English-born director of VCU's humanities resource center, asking in his clipped accent about how she and Elton John met up. Turns out it was two weeks before the Riggs match at a party for the singer who, she learned, wanted to write a song for her.

It was with obvious pride that she mentioned that "Philadelphia Freedom" made it to #1 on the charts, but she said Elton's greatest pride was that it made it to #1 on the R & B charts.

Sensing only a vague reaction from the students, BJK suggested, "Look it up on your little Spotify!"

And then, like a video director's dream, the music for "Philadelphia Freedom" started playing overhead and two VCU students with baskets of tennis balls appeared behind her and Billie Jean King began hitting autographed tennis balls into the frenzied crowd as scores of middle-aged women tried their creaky best to snatch a flying green ball out of mid-air.

Since I have zero hand/eye coordination, trying to snag a ball was never a consideration, so instead I stood among the flailing arms and watched the effortless motion of this woman's arm where the racket was nothing more than an extension of her hand as she hit 4 or 5 dozen balls into the stands while Elton John blared all around me.

I soaked it in as completely as I could and then walked a half mile home to call my friend and tell her what I'd just experienced for both of us. Like me, BJK represents a very specific era of our lives for her, so before long, we were going down the rabbit hole to those days.

What's curious is that each of us has become the repository for different aspects of our shared history.

She recalls visiting my tiny Dupont Circle apartment on 21st Street, where I showed her the window that looked out on the cute gay couple's bathroom, in case we wanted to ogle a nice male form. Until she mentioned it, this bonus feature of that place had long since left my head.

I can still conjure up the disdain on her face, the hand on her hip, the complete condescension in her voice when she first laid eyes on me.

Long complimented for her exceptional listening skills, she tells me she only acquired them after we met because I was always telling her one story or another. In my head, she'd arrived from the west coast fully loaded with a sympathetic ear.

Not so, she assures me.

An hour into the conversation, she shares that she envies me my connection to a place, something she hasn't had in a couple decades now. "Your heart is in Richmond, Kare" she tells me about my conversion to being a Virginian. "You've always had a sense of place."

Have I? I point out that this has become my place only because I took a chance on moving here when I knew no one other than my mate. That I stayed because of the pace of life here, the cost of living, the quality of life. The old houses and the green spaces. The ability to craft the life you want without being a slave to it.

I sing Richmond's praises with abandon now that she has admitted she has no reason to remain where she is.

Then I play dirty, reminding her all my city has to offer. I just came from a free event seeing one of her idols talk (and even answer my own question) mere blocks from my house. Outstanding as such an evening might seem to someone languishing in an uninspired outpost, it's hardly out of the ordinary.

The campaign to get her here has begun, essential given that we can't go our entire lives waiting for the right time to live in the same state. It's not like we're going to live forever, despite what some people say about me. Fact is, you've got to choose where you want to live your life.

And as Billie Jean came to Richmond to remind us, relationships are everything.

I'll Make Time

As every former Girl Scout knows, make new friends, but keep the old, blah, blah, silver and gold.

The old, a former co-worker and music buddy, had emailed with his standard, "Drinks or lunch soon?" so we'd planned lunch at Peking (I know, I know, who goes to Peking anymore, especially when a so-called Chinese restaurant doesn't provide chopsticks without asking) because it was near his office at the James Center.

Over my Sezchuan chicken and his General Tso's fried chicken, we discussed our shared allegiance in the mayoral race before moving on to the  state of the scene, a favorite topic of ours for a decade now.

Not for the first time, he thanked me for insisting he attend the Silent Music Revival back in 2008 when he hadn't a clue (always happy to be of service) and suggested a game where we chronicle our favorite cultural experiences back in that era when all the underground scenes were just beginning to burble up to a more mainstream audience.

Mermaid Skeletons in the Poe Garden, the first Listening Room at the Micheaux House, the Silent Music Revival with Blue Letter making our ears bleed, the first time we marched together in the Halloween parade.

We got a million of 'em, he and I.

Only problem is, we can play that game all day long and both of us had work to accomplish this afternoon, so I accompanied him as far as the James Center and continued my walk uphill to Jackson Ward.

As for the new (friend, that is), he was technically still wet behind the ears since we'd met exactly a week ago and this was our first outing. The man's only been back in Richmond for two months, so I'd offered to help a brother out by showcasing what I like about Richmond life.

Upon his return from a weekend in Asheville, the Barrister had notified me of his availability, I'd shared what my plans for that evening were and left him to decide if any or all of it was appealing enough to join in.

Whether bravely or foolishly, he'd checked all three boxes.

We met at Chop Suey Books for "One Hour, Four Places," with four writers reading from their work about linen closets, cheating spouses dying, overnights in a museum and bedside manner, although we were also those horrible people in the back row who only stayed for three of the readings.

Once out on the sidewalk, we agreed that Gayla Mills' ode to repeatedly patching the worn out jeans of the 21-year old she fell in love and began making music with rang truest.

As old friends of mine know well, memoir often trumps fiction for my interest.

From there, we did a convoy over to Vagabond for dinner, only to walk in and be informed that it was Restaurant Week and they were full up. On the one hand, I should probably have known what week it was given my occupation but on the other, I tend to block it out intentionally.

Fortunately, the bar was empty and dinner service extended to those stools, so we settled in to do battle with the unexpected constraints of the week, but the good news kept coming when I learned that ordering off the Restaurant Week menu was not required given the - ta da! - "Vagabond Staples" portion of the menu.

That and a glass of La Galope Rose ensured that even if Barr turned out to be dead boring as company, at least the meal wouldn't be (and he didn't). Additional points were earned because he's also firmly in the camp that food is meant to be shared so there can be no duplicate ordering.

Not a problem since I went with the staples and Barr went traditional with the Restaurant Week menu.

My first course was fried cauliflower with a swipe of earthy roasted pumpkin seed Romesco, while his was a smoked brisket taco combining pine nut salsa, pickled jalapeno and queso fresco that refused to stay contained in the tortilla despite our best efforts.

We covered the entire histories of all the people at the table where we'd met, as well as our conflicting plans for Saturday night. Despite his entreaties, Paula Poundstone yields to Julius Caesar for me in this instance.

Next up I tucked into scallops perfectly seared over smoked corn puree (something I'd love to see more of), butternut squash, pico de gallo and, yes, that's right, tortilla chips.

Snack food fine dining, yes, please.

His roasted rockfish brought up the whole roasted rockfish we'd shared with the table last Wednesday, a frequency he commented on, but, pshaw, I'd already had a second rockfish since then, making this my third in a week. Tonight's repeat fish benefited from toothsome collards, sea island red peas, potlikker and butter (although, let's face it, a fillet never measures up to whole fish).

Because that's what friends do - even brand new friends - I was happy to explain potlikker to the grown man next to me who was unfamiliar with the term despite an obvious affinity for the product.

More explaining was in order when he inquired about the photo on my blog  - Jonathan Borofsky's "Walking to the Sky" - which I took in 2008 laying in the grass at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas (and good for me since it has since been dismantled and not reinstalled) on a glorious winter day.

And since I can't mention Dallas without sharing how distasteful I repeatedly found the city despite the friend I adore who lived there, he gave me his take on Dallas, which was far more positive than mine.

But even newly-minted friends are bound to have differences of opinion, so I didn't hold it against him.

His third course was a chocolate torte with a Fall-tasting sweet Asian pear compote and goat cheese whipped cream, which he graciously shared with yours truly before we took our drinks and headed downstairs to the Gypsy Tea Room for the main event: music.

Two large groups of noisy talkers were just vacating their tables when we arrived, ordered more wine and claimed prime spaces on the banquette facing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the moody darkness, which also happens to be one reason I like this space so much.

So. Much. Atmosphere.

Given that it was a first outing for this friendship, we both had plenty of getting-to-know-you questions, such as him inquiring what radio station I listened to. When I said public radio WNRN, he said that told him everything he needed to know since he was also a huge fan of the station.

People continued to trickle in for the next half an hour as the quartet began playing and improvising, meaning I saw a favorite candidate for City Council, one of the musicians who used to live underneath me ("How are the new tenants?" he wondered about his replacements) and the drummer whose park show I'd missed last night.

Across the room, I spotted the jazz critic and several up and coming musicians, little surprise given the quality of musicianship on display tonight: the low key and multi-talented Scott on drums, Cameron Ralston slapping, plucking, bowing and generally owning the bass, Jason Scott killing it on sax and clarinet and Trey Pollard on guitar while making outstanding guitar faces.

I could see that the Barrister was enjoying himself completely. Leaning over between songs, he asked rhetorically, "Shows like this are happening all over town every night, aren't they?"

Sure are and some nights, they're in the same place where potlikker is being ladled up.

If this friendship continues to go well, in ten years I'd like to think he'll be another long-time friend thanking me for suggesting all kinds of places.

My gold and silver motto? Making new friends, keeping the old and laying in the grass when it's called for.