dreams

More music from YouTube. Click on the links in order.

One ... Two ... Three ... Four ... Five ... Six ... Seven ... Eight ... Nine.

Dreams songs:

Sweet Lennox
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n36IqITO76g&feature=related

Sweet Dreams Baby
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMq6uiP-buU&feature=related

Dreaming
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auEzGWBGAmE

Dream Lover
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvmdqkdRHZU&feature=related

No. 9 Dream
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7ThzeFA8lg&feature=related

Send me the pillow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FIiLJIGXlw&feature=related

Imagine
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2L5cztPijfc&feature=related

I'll see you Django
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJxehJ0Tbi0

Running down a dream
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eW91-5TC78&feature=related

Nightmare Artie Shaw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-W59FzOwYIs

Stardust Nat
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFyKAUBkdOs


Traveling Songs:

Road to Hell
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8KkuNIDweQ&feature=related



Others/misc.:

How High the moon
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UvXr2e9DwU&feature=related


Doors Hello
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x34wa2jehek&feature=related


Nature boy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iq0XJCJ1Srw&feature=related

Gypsy Woman
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCHAuKw3pYk

And she was
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJz6qj3A0dg&feature=related

Mr. Fantasy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_nwbTeIN4Y

Paper Doll
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2m8VZBfRYo

dreams

More music from YouTube. Click on the links in order.

One ... Two ... Three ... Four ... Five ... Six ... Seven ... Eight ... Nine.

Dreams songs:

Sweet Lennox
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n36IqITO76g&feature=related

Sweet Dreams Baby
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMq6uiP-buU&feature=related

Dreaming
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auEzGWBGAmE

Dream Lover
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvmdqkdRHZU&feature=related

No. 9 Dream
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7ThzeFA8lg&feature=related

Send me the pillow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FIiLJIGXlw&feature=related

Imagine
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2L5cztPijfc&feature=related

I'll see you Django
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJxehJ0Tbi0

Running down a dream
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eW91-5TC78&feature=related

Nightmare Artie Shaw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-W59FzOwYIs


Traveling Songs:

Road to Hell
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8KkuNIDweQ&feature=related



Others/misc.:

How High the moon
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UvXr2e9DwU&feature=related


Doors Hello
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x34wa2jehek&feature=related


Nature boy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iq0XJCJ1Srw&feature=related

Gypsy Woman
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCHAuKw3pYk

And she was
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJz6qj3A0dg&feature=related

Mr. Fantasy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_nwbTeIN4Y

Paper Doll
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2m8VZBfRYo

Change

Want to change Richmond’s public schools?
by F.T. Rea

Change, even in Richmond, is inevitable.

To back up that claim, one need only walk through Capitol Square to see the new Virginia Civil Rights Memorial that was dedicated on July 21, 2008.

The sculpture, by Stanley Bleifeld, is about change. Three of its sides recall of the heroism of those who risked much for the sake of walking around the Massive Resisters then in power aside, as they marched toward fair treatment and a better education. The fourth side’s figures suggest changes yet to come.

The 18 figures of the piece are not presented in heroic proportions. They are just slightly larger than life-size and they all stand on a low-rise platform, allowing viewers to stand along side them. In that way the art suggests everyday people, on the level with the rest of us, can be heroes, too.

In 1951, when Barbara Johns led the “walk-out” demonstration at Moton High in Farmville, which the sculpture recognizes, those kids were risking their lives for change. Some of them may not have felt that, as much of the worst violence of the Civil Rights Era was yet to come. Others may have been so caught up in the spirit of the moment, surfing a wave of hope, they didn’t sense how provocative their peaceful gesture might seem to the authorities.

In the presidential campaign now underway Sen. Barack Obama has adopted the word “change” as a one-word slogan. After mocking him, his opponents began to use the very same word in their speeches. It seems change is not only inevitable, sometimes it is more universally welcome than others.

Now, it seems, everybody is for change, but not necessarily the same changes. Obama has been talking about changes that come from the bottom up. He casts himself as one who would facilitate the sort of improvements people on the bottom -- out of power -- need to have a better life. If he wins and lives up to his lofty campaign rhetoric, he can be expected to then try to affect change from the top down.

To make lasting changes that are real improvements, it usually takes pressure from both the top and the bottom. Too much top down is asking for a revolution. Too much bottom up is a revolution.

Unless a sitting governor’s wife had not decided she wanted to put a memorial to Virginia’s Civil Rights heroes in Capitol Square, Bleifeld’s statement would simply not exist. The call for change from the bottom up inspired the artist. But the actual changes in public schools that have attempted to answer that call had to have been made by those in power.

Likewise, the political push and fundraising for the memorial had to be done by those in power.

Back to schools, the extreme emphasis on test results that has loomed over public education in the last decade was a change from the top down. Before the Standards of Learning/No Child Left Behind era, parents weren’t calling for standardized testing to cure the ills of public education.

No, they were calling for better teachers and decent facilities. They still are.

Are our leaders in Richmond today listening to what parents and students say they need from public education? Or, are they busy driving their kids out to their private schools?

Richmond School Board member Carol A.O. Wolf asks, “What will it take to bring Richmond’s black and white middle class back into our public schools?

My answer to her is that it will take a sincere effort to change, both from the bottom up and the top down.

From the podium, before unveiling the monument, Gov. Tim Kaine recalled the photographs of his wife -- Virginia’s First Lady Anne Holton, with her father, then-Gov. Linwood Holton -- walking into a public school in Richmond. In its time that black and white image was an inspiration to millions looking for a sign of real change.

Now it’s time for Richmond’s political, business and religious leaders to send their children and grandchildren back to public schools. Instead of more studies, they need to be listening to their kids telling them what is really going on in public schools.

Fifty-four years after the Brown vs. Board of Education Decision, isn’t it time for Richmond’s government to guarantee that an honest effort will be made to offer a quality education to children in every neighborhood in town? Can't we elect citizens to office who will see to it?

What will it take?

Parker Field

Two baseball stories that concern local baseball fans broke today. The Defenders, from Connecticut, are moving to Richmond for next season. Atlanta Braves manager Bobby Cox, who played for the Richmond Braves in 1967, announced he will retire after the 2010 season.
To remember the way it was in Cox's day at Parker Field, now, dear reader, you can buy a rare and authentic souvenir from baseball in Richmond in the era before The Diamond was built and opened in 1985.

To scare up some money and clear out some space I'm offering my two grandstand seats from Parker Field (1954-84) to the highest bidder. Having been kept indoors for the last 25 years, they are basically in the same shape they were in at the last game at Parker Field, when I pulled them up from the general admission stands on the third base line.

By the way, the authorities allowed it and lots of other people did the same thing. My girlfriend at the time, Tana Dubbe (pictured below at Parker Field, before we got the seats in the eighth inning), helped me pull them loose.

Still, I've never seen any of those liberated-from-the-wrecking-ball seats for sale. So, I don't have much of an idea of what they're worth. Note: I prefer to sell them locally, because they are made of wood and cast iron, so they are kind of heavy for shipping.

The bidding starts at $180.00, because I would rather keep them if I can't get that much. Obviously, I hope they are worth more to someone.

To make a bid please use the comments section of this post, or email me at ftrea9@yahoo.com. The 1976 Nokona glove in the top photo is not included in the sale. Maybe these two old seats would make the perfect gift for someone you know. Play ball!

Fan District map T-shirt Update

To those who are wondering when the Fan District Hub's map T-shirt will be available, here is where it stands for the time being: The project had to be moved to the back burner in late-September, because I needed to shift gears to concentrate completely on producing art to sell, and on writing/selling pieces to publishers.

As you may know, I am a freelancer and I work alone without any backing. There's no trust fund or corporation behind any of this.

What's left to do on the T-shirt project is to sign up another 15 to 20 places. Not only do I need to take in that money, but to max out the T-shirt's appeal I need the most popular places to be part of it. But the sales process can be very time-consuming, because it's absolutely necessary for the decision-maker to actually see the sample T-shirt, and not simply hear about it.

In the late summer, I was trying so hard to wind it up during what unfortunately was vacation season that I neglected other things and got into trouble. Since then I've been catching up on obligations that can't be ignored -- like the rent.

However, the map T-shirt remains as good a concept as it ever was. And, once printed and distributed I have every confidence they will sell like hotcakes.

So, please accept my apology for this delay. I simply underestimated how long it would take. The older I get the more that seems to happen. Much more than you, I am anxious to see those T-shirts on all the right people, as they walk about the Fan District. So please have a little more patience, the T-shirt will be available ASAP.

A Piece of Work: Larry Rohr, master of the lucky bounce

Richmonder, by way of West Virginia, Oklahoma and New Jersey, Larry Rohr is a piece of work. His enthusiasm can hit you like a sucker punch.

It’s also fair to say of Rohr that he is: an offbeat local legend in softball circles, a genuine disc-golf pioneer, an avid spelunker and bird-watcher, a juggler and a card shark, and a magician/wizard of sorts. As well, he’s a tireless collector of hats, natural wonders, Disney toys, and you name it.

When Larry - a lover of all things orange - isn’t zestfully pursuing one of his beloved avocations, the 53-year-old gentle iconoclast is probably doing a favor for someone in his vast legion of friends and associates. This is a busy man, with little time for seeking, or accepting, credit for the kind things that happen along the way; wherever he’s been in his orange VW bus.

The phrase - a piece of work - is always applied to colorful personalities. Although it’s heard less often these days, it’s still useful. Perhaps it’s easier to illustrate it than to state precisely what the expression means in a few words.

Bill Clinton is a 24-carat piece of work. Yet, no one would ever call Al Gore or George W. Bush a piece of work. Captain Outrageous - Ted Turner - is a piece of work, with parts to spare. And yet, The Donald - Donald Trump - is too much of a wannabe to ever be a piece of work. So, too, NFL team-owner/maverick Al Davis is. While NFL team-owner/maverick Jerry Jones is something other than.

Staying with the NFL theme, quarterback Brett Favre is surely a piece of work. He’d be glad to play football with no referees to shield him. Then, there’s John Elway, who was just as tough; just as good, maybe better. But Elway is too smug and artificially laid-back to be a piece of work.

Rohr finished his 26th season as a pitcher with the Biograph softball team last summer. Although he supposedly retired following the 2000 season, he heard the call to return to the mound a few times in 2001.

While Larry is blessed with excellent eye-hand coordination, his strong suit has never been flashy raw athleticism. Larry’s days of bursting out of the batters box like a shot out of a canon are behind him. No, this is a man who has grown accustomed to besting his opponents with luck.

If the ball takes a fortuitous bounce, the smart money will always be on that ball bouncing his way. Another old expression comes to mind to do with Larry’s uncanny grasp on the mercurial element of chance - good luck is when preparation meets opportunity.

Rohr expects good luck and he’s ready when it arrives. He isn’t at all surprised when his routine pop-up is dropped, because a bug flew into the outfielder’s eye. No. Larry is running - if you want to call it that - to first base, as if the ball had been hit sharply into a gap.

Thus, he has made a career of besting opponents who are supposed to be better than he is, on paper. Larry doesn’t mind being perceived as the underdog; like most who truly enjoy competition, he uses it.

In frisbee-golf - or disc-golf, if you prefer - there are always those who can throw it further. There are some who carry more trick shots in their bag. For sure, most of the best golfers are about half his age.

However, if you put enough pressure on those younger and more supple competitors, a good percentage of them will crack. Larry, on the other hand, will smile as he watches his shot glance wildly off a tree limb, careen onto the ground to roll on its edge for 50 odd yards, hop a curb and stop harmlessly next to the target object.

Rohr’s fellow Frizbeetarians have been losing matches to him in this manner since he and a few of his friends helped to establish this poor man’s alternative to golf in the metro area in the mid-‘70s.

Larry is a longtime employee of Reynolds Metals, now Alcoa. He and his wife, Wendy, have a son, Leo, who attends the University of Virginia. Leo is tossing a mean frisbee, himself, these days.

Although there are many well-known pieces of work, being such doesn’t usually lead to fame and fortune. Truth be told, most of them don’t get rich. What they all do have in common, famous or not, is this - a real piece of work isn’t waiting for someone else to come along and validate him.

In all our travels, no one reminds us of Larry Rohr. And, Larry Rohr - the master of the lucky bounce - brings no one else to mind.

-- 30 --

This piece was originally published by Richmond.com in 2000. The updated version above appeared in the December 2001 issue of SLANT.

Two local newspaper articles

REA GIVES BIZARRE EDGE TO BLAB'S `MONDO SOFTBALL'
by Paul Woody (Richmond News Leader, July 5, 1990)

Years ago when Terry Rea was manager of the now defunct Biograph Theatre, he organized a softball team for the Fan League.

But this wasn't just any team. This team had two illegal French aliens.

"One spoke no English at all," Rea said. "Neither had ever seen a baseball game. But they went out to a yard sale, found some funky `50s uniforms and they were a laugh riot."

The Biograph team also had a life-size, cardboard figure of Mr. Natural, a comic-book character created by R. Crumb of Zap Comics. Rea and his teammates took Mr. Natural to every game. They would carry him onto the field and chant to him.

"Some thought it was funny," Rea said. "Some thought we were mocking them. Some thought we were mocking the game."

All Rea was trying to do was enjoy a little softball and make the team and the league, "a rolling comedy show," he said. "I'm not sure everybody on the team was 100 percent behind me on that."

Rea began playing softball in 1976, but now, at the age of 42, he's in semi-retirement. "I try in the offseason to lower my expectations, but I'm losing my game faster than I can lower my expectations," Rea said. "That drives everyone out of the game except the most fanatic."

Rea, however, is hardly done with softball. In fact, he may be contributing more to the game than he ever did as a player. Rea, a freelance graphic artist by trade, is the originator, host and creative force behind "Mondo Softball," a weekly, one-hour talk and call-in show seen Tuesday nights at 9 o'clock on BLAB-TV (Continental Ch. 7, Storer Ch. 8).

Mondo is Italian for "world." Rea took it from the drive-in movies of his youth that were all the rage.

"There were a bunch of `Mondo' films," Rea said. "Then, you started to see it thrown in front of almost anything to give it a bizarre connotation. People just know it has some sort of bizarre edge to it. "And, of course, I'm using that."

Rea isn't the host of "Mondo Softball."

The host is Mutt deVille, a man of mysterious origin who always wears a baseball cap, sunglasses and softball jersey. Mutt deVille is Rea's alter ego. Mutt deVille was created by Rea as a pen name for the sports writer in Slant, the twice-monthly newsletter of commentary that Rea publishes, writes and edits.

DeVille initially existed to give some diversity to the pages of Slant, "and to create the illusion there was a staff of writers," Rea said.. But the more Rea wrote as deVille, the more he liked it.

"My name, and my approach to things, like anyone who stays in his hometown long enough, carries a certain amount of baggage with it," Rea said. "I could move more freely as Mutt deVille.

"When I decided to do a show and it was a sports show, it seemed like a good idea to use Mutt. That led to the idea that Mutt should become a character and the time I was on camera should be a performance. Mutt is a device to make me feel at ease on stage."

"Mondo Softball" is not like any other show you'll see on BLAB. It's a one-hour play, softball as kitsch. It's part news -- standings, results and tournament highlights provided by Paul Joyce, the `field' reporter and a veteran local player -- part conversation with a guest, questions from callers and wisecracks, subtle humor and outright gags whenever possible. It's clever, and it's as entertaining as a show on recreational softball can be.

Rea said he has borrowed from shows he's seen. From the "Tonight Show," Rea took the idea that Johnny Carson is at his best and funniest when things go wrong.

"Part of live TV is that there are a lot of glitches," Rea said. "I've tried to incorporate the production values of an old `50s sci-fi movie and try to go with whatever goes wrong."

Each week, there is a great uproar over the magic word. If a caller says the word, he or she receives a $20 gift certificate from a local restaurant. The magic word is straight out of "You Bet Your Life" with the late Groucho Marx. In that show, it was called the secret word.

"If you're going to steal, steal from the best," Rea said.

Part of the attraction of "Mondo Softball" is that you can never be sure what will happen next.

"I think some people watch shows on BLAB just to see if the set will fall over," Rea said.

Rea brings a unique element of surprise to the screen. He isn't afraid to take a chance or play a little joke. When he was manager of the Biograph, a repertory theatre located near Virginia Commonwealth University, Rea once offered free admission to "The Devil and Miss Jones."

The line for the show, which most believed to be a well-known X-rated movie, stretched around the 800 block of West Grace Street. But the X-rated movie was "The Devil in Miss Jones." "The Devil and Miss Jones" was a 1941 comedy.

"Most people thought it was funny," Rea said. "But you always have some who get mad about something like that."

"Mondo Softball" has something of the same problem. Hard-core softball players don't always appreciate Rea's attempts at humor.

"I've heard some don't like Mutt's approach," Rea said. "But that's the reason Paul is there. Overall, though, the reaction I get is that they (the hardcore players) like Mutt."

BLAB-TV likes Mutt so much that another show already is in the works. "Mondo Pops," covering everything from sports to who knows what will premier this fall.

It should be an interesting experience. Who knows, maybe even Mr. Natural will make an appearance.

*

SLANT FORUM: TALK ABOUT A GREAT IDEA ' INFORMATION PARTY' REDISCOVERS LOST ART OF CONVERSATION (Richmond Times-Dispatch, Jan., 31, 1993)
by Charles Slack

This is the MTV generation, right? Generation X. Raised on "The Brady Bunch." Life reduced to sound bite. Conversation is as old-fashioned as doctors' house calls and the milkman delivering a pint of cream to your door. Everybody knows that nobody talks anymore.

Then what are the 30 or so patrons of The Bidder's Suite on West Grace Street, many in their early 20s, doing here on a Monday night with the music turned down?

As it turns out, they've paid a 99-cent cover charge for the sole purpose of doing what everyone says people just don't do anymore -- having a conversation. Welcome to the Slant Forum, billed as an "Information Party."

At the microphone is F.T. "Terry" Rea, publisher of Slant, one of the city's longest-running alternative publications. Some of the topics are straight out of the headlines -- date rape, gun control, gays in the military. Others take a lighter look at popular culture.

Rea says the idea came to him late at night. He jotted down a few notes. "When the idea hit me, I got very excited. The next day I looked at my notes. I was still excited."

That being his acid test for ideas conceived in the dead of night. He contacted his friends at The Bidder's Suite, a coffee house/restaurant/ bar on West Grace Street. The restaurant was closed on Monday nights. How about opening it up for weekly discussion nights? Rea would charge the 99-cent cover, the restaurant would serve its usual menu of sandwiches, appetizers, coffee and drinks.

"I'm from the `60s generation," says Linda Beales, who owns the restaurant with her son, Jame-Paul Owens. Ms. Beales says she'd like the place to capture the atmosphere of coffeehouses that flourished around the country in the `60s.

The Bidder's Suite already features poetry readings and acoustic guitars. So why not discussions? Rea and The Bidder's Suite vow to hold the discussion nights each Monday as long as interest is sufficient.

A little after 8 p.m., Rea gets the evening under way with a trivia contest and the first of three pre-set discussion topics. If you've followed Slant magazine's iconoclastic take on Richmond life but never met Rea, you expect the 45-year-old to look sort of funky, with long hair, perhaps, a full beard, and a T-shirt with some anti-establishment slogan.

Instead, Rea appears with short hair, button-down shirt and a striped sweater. He looks more like a schoolteacher than a rebel. And that's exactly his function in these discussions. He's like a teacher -- one of those cool ones who lets the kids express themselves without fear of reprisal.

Except it's better than a classroom here, according to patron Paul Hudert, a student at VCU. "You get to voice your opinion. It's more personal."

Hudert's friend, Lisa Clayton, says she prefers the give and take of the discussion over simply absorbing facts from the media. "The media give you one opinion. They tell me the same thing over and over." The first subject Rea has selected for the evening is "anti-classics," meaning those aspects of popular culture that seem prevalent today but are destined for history's dustbin with the likes of the Hula Hoop and Pet Rocks.

The discussion starts promisingly, but soon degenerates into a personal listing by patrons of likes and dislikes. Smoking is on the way out, one patron declares. Anti-smokers are on the way out, says another. When the subject runs out of steam, Rea declares a short recess, then returns with a discussion about what Bill Clinton should do with Saddam Hussein.

What follows is a literate, informed debate with opinion ranging from lay off the Iraqis to finish the job that George Bush started. Gregory Maitland, who has served in the Army and is now a cook at The Bidder's Suite, was working the night the first forum was held in December. He was so intrigued by the discussion that he requested Monday nights off and has returned every week to participate.

Maitland says he comes "not just to state my opinions, but to hear others." He believes, "We're in a new age, from `This is what I think and that's all that matters' to `What's your opinion?' "

Many of the participants are regulars, but new faces have been appearing each week, Rea says.

VCU students Amy McGahan and Hugh Apple dropped in after seeing a Slant ad posted in another restaurant.

Ms. McGahan says, "The thought of people coming together and talking seemed really cool. It's encouraging. You get so tired of watching TV and going to the movies."

Though the crowd leaned toward students in their early 20s, the mix is not limited by age. Gayle Carson, who returned to college after leaving 20 years ago, says, "I'm one of those people who like to voice an opinion.

"Even though we've had some intense discussions, it's never gotten to the point that it's beyond polite conversation."

*

Grace St. Game

Part One

Part Two
Part Three

Sgt. Buddy's

Biograph Times

BIOGRAPH TIMES
by F. T. Rea

What was once proudly billed as Richmond’s Repertory Cinema opened in 1972 with a flourish. It closed some 15 years later without ceremony. What follows is an overview of its story, seen mostly through a prism of affection and edited by the merciful memory loss of its original manager.

It’s also a writer’s memoir about his salad days, 1972 through the mid-1980s in Richmond’s Fan District. That was an era in which your narrator had himself a fine perch on which to view the popular culture that flowed through the neighborhood in which a new urban university, Virginia Commonwealth University, found itself.

As much as any entity in its time, the Biograph Theatre provided a place for the music, art and politics of that age to collide and connect.

PART ONE: The Devils & the Details

My first good look of what was to become Richmond's version of a repertory cinema, the Biograph Theatre, was in July of 1971. At that point it was a few cinderblocks in a hole in the ground. Having gotten a tip the DeeCee owners were considering hiring a local manager, I went to the construction site chasing the opportunity.

A couple of months later I was offered what seemed then to be the best job in the Fan District. The adventure that followed went far beyond any expectations I might have had, at age 23, about becoming the manager of the Biograph Theatre.

On the evening of February 11, 1972, the new venture at 814 West Grace Street was launched with a gem of a party. The local press was all over it. The first feature presented was a delightful French war-mocking comedy -- “King of Hearts” (1966). On Richmond’s newest silver screen, Genevieve Bujold was dazzling opposite the droll Alan Bates. In the lobby, as flashbulbs popped the dry champagne flowed steadily.

During the ‘60s, college film societies thrived. Knowing film was cool; it could get you laid. By the ‘70s, many of the kids who had grown up on television worshipped classic movies, some had become connoisseurs of the moving image. Popular culture, in general, was becoming a subject for serious study on campus for the first time.

So it was the fashion of the day elevated many foreign movies, certain American classics, and selected underground films above their more accessible, current-release, Hollywood counterparts. In that pre-cable TV age, much of the mainstream domestic product was viewed by the film buff in-crowd as laughingly naive or hopelessly corrupt.

Although none of them had any prior experience in Show Biz, a group of five men -- then in their mid-30s opened Georgetown’s Biograph Theatre (1967-96) in 1967. They were trendy, smart guys and at least one of them knew a lot about foreign films and film history. They caught a wave. A few years later those same young owners were successful, confident and looking to expand. In Richmond’s Fan District they thought they had found a perfect situation for second repertory-style cinema, another Biograph.

Local players, filthy rich Morgan Massey and deal-maker Graham “Squirrel” Pembrooke, built the Biograph building from scratch for the Georgetown group. Significantly, Pembroke managed to get a 20-year lease for $3,000-a-month rent guaranteed by a federal program for at-risk neighborhoods, in case the edgy concept didn’t fly and the operators went belly up. Thus, when the Biograph closed in 1987 the building’s owners were then able to collect the rent from Uncle Sam until 1992.

Knowing they could walk away easily, if the business fizzled, the Biograph’s creators -- chiefly David Levy (who later owned The Key on Wisconsin in Georgetown) and Alan Rubin -- inked the deal and borrowed money to buy a load of very used seats and projection booth equipment, which included ancient Peerless carbon arc lamps to back up a pair of rugged Simplex 35 mm projectors.

Biograph programs, printed schedules with film notes, covered about six weeks each. Double features were the staple. Program No. 1 was heavy on documentaries, featuring the work of de Antonio and Pennebaker, among others. Also on that program were several films by revered European directors, including Antonioni, Costa-Gavras, Fellini, and Polanski.

After the opening flurry, with long lines to every show, it was somewhat surprising and disappointing when the crowds shrank dramatically in the third and fourth months of operation. As VCU students were a substantial portion of theater’s initial crowd, the slump was chalked off to exams and summer vacation.

In that context, the first summer of operation was opened to experimentation aimed at drawing customers from beyond the borders of the immediate neighborhood. The brightest light in the mix of celluloid offerings was just such an experiment that caught on -- Friday and Saturday midnight shows.

By trial and error, the way of drawing a late crowd was gleaned from experience. Most importantly, we learned it took an offbeat movie that lent itself to promotion; early successes were “Night of the Living Dead” (1968), “Yellow Submarine” (1968), “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” (1971), and an underground twin bill of “Chafed Elbows” (1967) and “Scorpio Rising” (1964).

With significant input from the theater’s promotion-savvy assistant manager, (local Hall-of-Fame bartender and Rock ‘n’ Roll promoter) Chuck Wrenn (http://www.richmondparents.com/50_feature_chuck.htm), off-the-wall ad campaigns were designed in-house to set the tone for the somewhat anti-establishment movies that seemed to work best. There were two essential elements to those promotions -- wacky radio spots on WGOE, a popular AM station aimed directly at the hippie listening audience, and distinctive handbills posted in strategic locations. Dave DeWitt (http://www.fiery-foods.com/dave/), now the widely read guru of hot food, produced the radio commercials, many of which were rather humorous in their day.

In the September “Performance” (1970), an overwrought but well-crafted musical melodrama -- starring Mick Jagger -- packed the place a couple of weekends in a row. Then a campy, docu-drama called “Reefer Madness” (1936) sold out four consecutive weekends. Sometimes nearly as many people were turned away as could be seated.

To follow “Reefer Madness” what was then a little-known X-rated comedy, “Deep Throat” (1972), was booked. As the feature ran only an hour, master prankster Luis Bunuel's surrealistic classic “An Andalusian Dog” (1929) was added to the bill, just for grins.

A couple of weeks after “Deep Throat” began playing in Richmond it got busted in Manhattan. The national media became fascinated with the film. Its star, Linda Lovelace, actually appeared on network TV talk shows. Watching Johnny Carson tiptoe around the premise of her celebrated “talent” made for some giggly early-‘70s television.

To be sure of getting in to see the show, patrons began showing up an hour early. Standing in line on the sidewalk for the Biograph’s midnight show became a party as some brought libation to liven up the wait. There were nights the line resembled a tailgating scene at a pro football game. A band of Jesus Freaks frequently stood across the street issuing bullhorn-amplified warnings to the drinking, eating, smoking folks in line.

Playing for 17 consecutive weekends, at midnight only, “Throat” grossed over $30,000. That was more money than the entire production budget of America’s first skinflick blockbuster.

Its grosses conveniently made up for the disappointing box office generated by an eight-week package of venerable European classics, including ten titles by the celebrated Ingmar Bergman. The same package of art house workhorses -- we bicycled prints back and forth -- played extremely well at the Biograph in Georgetown, underlining what was becoming a painfully underestimated contrast between the two markets.

Then, even more telling, over the spring a series of imported first-run movies crashed and burned. The centerpiece of the festival was the premiere of the popular Bunuel masterpiece “The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie” (1972). In what we regarded as a coup, gambling it would win the award, we booked it in advance to open in Richmond two days after the 1973 Oscars were to be handed out.

We guessed right, it took the Oscar in for Best Foreign Film, but it flopped in Richmond anyway.

Management was more than bummed out, we were shocked. Money had been put up in advance to secure a print, which was in demand because it was doing brisk business in many cities. The failure of this particular festival forced a serious reassessment of what had been the original plan.

To stay alive the Biograph needed to make adjustments.

*

After much fretting on the phone line between “M” Street and Grace Street the Faustian deal was struck -- another film from Deep Throat’s director, Gerard Damiano, was booked. However, this time the film’s distributor imposed terms that called for “The Devil in Miss Jones” (1973) to play as a first-run picture at regular show times, rather than as a midnight-only attraction.

At this point no one could have anticipated what we were setting in motion by agreeing to expand the availability of “adult movies” beyond a midnight audience. For the first time, the promotional copy for an XXX-rated feature was included on a Biograph program.

The circus began when an aggressive young TV newsman took Biograph Program No. 12 to the City’s new Commonwealth’s Attorney, Aubrey Davis. The reporter asked Davis what his office was going to do about the Biograph’s brazen plan to run such a notorious film, especially in light of the then-freshly-minted “Miller Decision” on obscenity by the Supreme Court.

Eventually, the provocateur got what he wanted from the newly appointed prosecutor -- a quote that would fly as an anti-smut soundbite. The other local broadcasters jumped on the bandwagon the next day. By the lazy mid-summer evening “The Devil in Miss Jones” opened it had already become a well-covered local story.

Every show sold out and a wild ride had begun.

Matinees were added the next day. On the third day all the matinees sold out, too. The WRVA-AM traffic-copter hovered over the Biograph in drive time, giving live updates on the length of the line waiting to get into the theater. The airborne announcer helpfully reminded his listeners of the remaining show times for that night.

Well, that did it: The following morning a local circuit court judge asked for a personal look at what was clearly the talk-of-the-town.

Management cooperated with his honor's wishes and schlepped the print down to Neighborhood Theaters’ Downtown private screening room, so he could avoid being seen entering the Biograph in its bohemian neighborhood.

As Judge James M. Lumpkin admittedly hadn’t been out to see a movie in a theater since the 1950s, this goofy/sleazy stag film rubbed him in the worst way. Red-faced after the screening, the judge looked at David Levy and me like we were from Mars, maybe Pluto.

Lumpkin promptly filed a complaint to the Commonwealth's Attorney and issued a Temporary Restraining Order, himself, in an attempt to halt further showings. The next day a press conference was staged in the theater’s lobby to make an announcement.

Every news-gathering outfit in town bought the premise and sent a representative. They acted as if what was obviously a publicity stunt was actually 24-carat news, because it served their purpose to play along. Yes, I went to school on that. After Dave DeWitt -- who represented the theater as its ad agent -- introduced yours truly to the working press, a prepared statement was read for the cameras and microphones. The gist of it was that based on the demand, the crusading Biograph would fight the TRO in court and ‘The Devil in Miss Jones” was being held over for a second week.

During the lively Q & A session that followed, when Dave scolded an eager scribe for going too far with a follow-up question, it was tough to hold back the laughing fit that would have surely broken the spell.

The Devil's spectacular run ended at nine days. It grossed $40,000. Technically, the legal action was against the movie, itself, rather than anyone at the Biograph. The trial opened on Halloween day. Judge Lumpkin, whose original complaint to the Commonwealth’s Attorney had set the process in motion, served as the trial judge, too.

Objections to that quizzical affront to justice fell on the determined Judge Lumpkin’s stone cold deaf ears. On November 13, 1973, Lumpkin put all on notice: If you dare to exhibit this “filth” to the public, then stand by for certain criminal prosecution. Effectively, “The Devil” was banned in Richmond.

*

The plot was hatched in early January 1974. It was after-hours in the Biograph's office, next to the projection booth on the second story. Having finished the box-office paperwork, your narrator was browsing through a stack of newly acquired 16mm film catalogues, and probably enjoying a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon. The scent of recently-burned marijuana may have been in the air.

A particular entry -- ‘The Devil and Miss Jones” -- jumped off the page. Instantly, it was obvious that the title for that 1941 RKO light comedy had been the inspiration for the X-rated movie’s title. It should be noted that the public had yet to be subjected to the endless puns and referential lowbrowisms the skinflick industry would later use for titles. This was still in what might be called the seminal days of the adult picture business.

The plan called for using the upcoming second anniversary as camouflage. Wise guy DeWitt and the theater’s resourceful assistant manager, Bernie Hall, were in on the early scheming. Then, in a deft stroke -- suggested by owner Alan Rubin -- a Disney nature short subject, “Beaver Valley” (1950), was added to the bill.

Obviously, the stunt’s biggest problem was security. The whole scheme rested on the precarious notion that the difference in the titles wouldn’t be noticed. The conspirators, who by this time included the entire staff, all accepted that the slightest whiff of a ruse could be our undoing. Thus, absolutely no one could be told anything.

The theater announced in a press release that its second anniversary birthday party would offer a free admission show. The provocative two titles were listed matter-of-factly; free beer and birthday cake would be available as long as they lasted. Somehow, a rumor began to circulate that the Biograph might be out-maneuvering the grasp of the court’s decree by not charging admission.

The rumor found its way into legit print. That was sweet.

The busy staff fielded all inquires, in person or over the telephone, by politely stating, “We can only tell you the titles and the show times. Yes, the admission will be free. No further details are available.”

The evening before the event the phones rang off the hook. Reporters were snooping about, asking questions. Yet, up until the last minute no one outside our tight circle appeared to catch on to what we were actually up to. Amazing as it may sound, the caper’s security was airtight.

It was, in truth, absolutely beautiful teamwork. We believed it would work, we wanted it to work.The line began forming before lunch. As the afternoon wore on and the thousands lined up, it was suggested more than once that we could eventually have a riot on our hands. What would happen? Nobody knew. The box-office for the 6:30 p.m. show opened at 6 p.m. By then the line stretched more than three-quarters around the block. It took a full half-hour to fill our 500-seat auditorium. We turned away at least six or seven times that number.

The sense of anticipation in the air was electric. What would happen? Nobody knew.

Once the cat sprang from the bag -- well, actually it was a beaver, then otters -- some in that night’s crowd said they thought it was a wonderful occasion. Still, right away about a third of them left to go to a bar. The rest stayed on through the short.

Maybe about a third of the house stayed all the way through the feature. There were several people who said it was the funniest thing that had ever happened in Richmond. Of course, a few got angry. But since everything was free there was only so much they could say.

Meanwhile, a thoroughly amused press corps was filing its reports on the hoax. The wire services promptly picked up the story, as did the broadcast networks. The rush that came from living in the eye of that day’s storm was exhilarating, to say the least. Gloating over the utter success of the gag, as the staff and assorted friends finished off the second keg, was as good as it gets in the prank business.

*

The next day CBS News ran a story on the stunt. NPR’s All Things Considered went so far as to compare the Biograph’s wee prank to Orson Welles’ mammoth 1938 radio hoax. Also the next day, the Biograph returned to business as usual with an Andy Warhol double feature.

The staff went back to work on “Matinee Madcap,” a 16mm film project in production. VCU film professor Trent Nicholas, then one of the theater’s ushers and later an assistant manager, shared the directing credit with me. The rest of the staff and many friends of the Biograph appeared as players. The plot, calling for a good deal of slapstick chase-scene footage, set the action in the movie theater, itself.

Although post-prank life seemed to fall back into a familiar routine, big changes were on the horizon. With Watergate revelations in the air and the Vietnam War ending, the intense interest in politics and social causes on American campuses began to evaporate. In 1974 “streaking” replaced anti-war demonstrations as the students’ favorite expression of defiance.

Six months after the theater’s second anniversary splash, the same month that President Nixon resigned, the Biograph closed down for a month to be converted into a twin cinema.

Automating the change-overs from one 35mm projector to the other was essential to controlling costs. Among other things that meant xenon lamps, high intensity bulbs that could be ignited by switches, had to replace our out-of-date, manually operated carbon arc system.

On the day the exchange was made I got to see the same scene with the two light sources. The light from two burning carbon rods was white and gave the picture depth and sparkle. Xenon light was slightly yellow and flat.

The manager’s job at the Biograph became more complicated with two screens to fill with flickering light. The theater’s mission became steadily less clear. After the summer of 1974, every aspect of what had seemed to be life’s absolutes became steadily less clear for the man who thought he had the best job in the Fan, and other dreamers.

Part Two: Short Subjects

Rebus the Spokesdog

Rebus was the Biograph’s official spokesdog. Drawn by yours truly he made his initial appearance on a midnight show handbill in our first year of operation (1972). He later appeared in comic strips published by VCU's student newspaper, The Commonwealth Times, which morphed into an all-comics tabloid called “Fan Free Funnies” for three issues in the spring of 1973.

In the 1970s a circle of young Fan District artists was drawing cartoons, making short animated films and even creating large cartoon-style paintings. Inspired by “underground comix,” there was a scene, of sorts. Phil Trumbo was the most celebrated artist/filmmaker of that scene at the time.

An interesting artifact of this time, which was produced by Trumbo and his partner Steve Segal, was Futuropolis (1984), a pixilated mini-feature that had three Biograph employees appearing in roles -- Cathy Schultz, Tom Campagnoli and Cassandra Cossitt.

Anyway, in such a make-believe world, Rebus was a minor celebrity ‘toon, perhaps along the lines of local pitchman who appears on TV frequently selling sofas, promoting community events, etc. He continued to pop up on Biograph handbills and programs all during my tenure as the Biograph Theatre’s manager. He also was happy to help out with other projects, such as my 1980s Rock ‘n’ Roll promotions with former Biograph assistant manager Chuck Wrenn; we called our partnership Lit Fuse Productions.

Rebus made a comeback in a series of ‘toons in SLANT (1985-94), doing some of his best work. As well, he has appeared on various posters, calendars and T-shirts. etc., I’ve produced over the years since.

* *

Cat People

In its day RKO was known for its ability to produce well-crafted, sometimes artsy or offbeat features using a smaller budget than the other so-called major studios. Nonetheless, it was almost always in trouble, financially. Founded in 1929, RKO stopped making movies in 1953 and eventually sold its lot and production facilities to television’s Desilu Productions.Twenty-five summers ago I booked a festival of 24 titles to play at the Biograph, all from RKO, which still operated then as a distributor of its original library.

The 12 double features in this festival were: “Top Hat” (1935) and “Damsel in Distress” (1936); “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” (1939) and “The Informer” (1935); “King Kong” (1933) and “Mighty Joe Young” (1949); “Suspicion” (1941) and “The Live By Night” (1948); “Sylvia Scarlett” (1936) and “Mister Blandings Builds His Dream House” (1948); “Murder My Sweet” (1945) and “Macao” (1952); “The Mexican Spitfire” (1939) and “Room Service” (1938); “Journey Into Fear” (1942) and “This Land Is Mine” (1943); “The Thing” (1951) and “Cat People” (1942); “The Boy With Green Hair” (1948) and “Woman on the Beach” (1947); “Citizen Kane” (1941) and “Fort Apache” (1948); “The Curse of the Cat People” (1944) and “The Body Snatcher” (1945).

One feature, “Cat People” -- which was later remade as a vehicle to present a young Nastassja Kinski’s lithe form in all its glory -- was a low-budget black-and-white thriller. Unlike the remake, the original was a lean and subtle production that left much to the viewer’s imagination. Still, any film of that genre can be disturbing to a sensitive viewer.

For some reason “Cat People” got under one such viewer’s skin. He was a solitary man who walked around the VCU neighborhood during the day. He stayed in some sort of subsidized group home at night. Night or day, he was always medicated to the hilt. At the theater we used to let him in free. Then, of course, he would complain about everything. We laughed about him, and imitated him, when he wasn’t there. But we treated him with respect when he was, always at matinees.

Anyway, the movie scared him. “Are there really any cat people?” he would ask, in his distinctive, almost cartoon way of speaking.

“No,” he would be assured. Then a few minutes later he would ask again, his hands would flex and twitch, his eyes would wander. Same answer. Then he’d take his free popcorn and go into the dark auditorium to watch the movie for a while.

Well, I saw him recently. He’s totally gray now, he must be at least in his mid-60s. He still walks around the neighborhood, with his strange gait. There are no movie theaters in the Fan District now. When I created the image above -- of a cat named Zeke in a coat and tie -- for a calendar in 1996, I thought of that same man, and smiled. I bet he still remembers that movie.

Yes, sometimes, there are cat people. But they aren’t all mean. Some of them just look at you, like they know something you don’t know.

* *

Discovering the Fan

On April 14, 1973 the weather was absolutely spectacular. For that Saturday afternoon the 800 and 900 blocks of West Grace Street, and environs, were packed with foot traffic, like never before.

Hundreds of free helium balloons were being handed out. Hundreds of free prize coupons, tucked into plastic Easter eggs, had been hidden and were being discovered. Live music was in the air. There was a fashion show on a stage in a parking lot. Most of the merchants were featuring attractive specials and/or discounts. The event had a busy carnival atmosphere that was in no way threatening.

Nobody could remember when anything quite like it had been done before in that neighborhood of the Fan District. On that day an ad hoc group of 21 merchants cooperated for a one-time-only promotion that went over quite well -- “Discover the Fan.” Below is a piece about this event, written by the late Shelley Rolfe:
Shelley Rolfe’s
By the Way
Richmond Times-Dispatch (April, 16, 1973)

It was breakfast time and the high command for Discover the Fan Day had, with proper regard for the inner man, moved its final planning meeting from the Biograph Theater to Lum’s Restaurant. Breakfast tastes ran a gamut. Eggs with beer. Eggs with orange juice. H-hour -- the operations plan had set it for noon -- was less than three hours away. Neither beer nor orange juice was being gulped nervously.

Terry Rea, manager of the Biograph and the extravaganza’s impresario, was reciting a last-minute, mental things-to-do list. There was the vigilante committee, which would gather up the beer and soft drink cans and bottles that invariably infest the fronts of the shops in the 800 and 900 blocks of W. Grace St., focus area of the discovery.

The city police had promised a dragnet to sweep away the winos who also invariably litter the neighborhood. The day had bloomed crisp and sunny, the first dry Saturday since Groundhog Day. “I knew it wouldn’t rain,” Rea said with the brash confidence of the young. “Lots of young businessmen around here,” a beer drinker at another table said. The free enterprise system lives.

REA WAS assigning duties for the committee that would rope off two Virginia Commonwealth University parking lots that would serve as the setting for a fashion show and band concert. The committee to blow up balloons, with the aid of a cylinder of helium [sic]. One thousand balloons in a shrieking variety of colors. “If we only get 500 kids... two to a customer,” Rea said cheerfully.

“I need more people,” said the balloon task force leader.

Twenty-one businesses were involved in the project. Each of them had contributed prizes, and gift certificates had been put into plastic Easter eggs. An egg hunt would be part of the day, and Rea had a message for the committee that would be tucking the eggs away: “Don’t put them in obvious places, but don’t put them were people can get hurt looking for them.”

“We talked about doing this last summer but we never got it together,” Rea said. There had been fresh talk in late February, early March, and it had become airborne. The 21 businesses had anted up $1,500 for advertising, which was handled by Dave DeWitt, proprietor of a new just-out-of-the-Fan, small, idea-oriented agency.

“Demographically, we were aiming for people between 25 and 34,” Rea said. There had been newspaper advertising and spots on youth-oriented radio stations. “We had a surplus late in the week...” Rea said. The decision was made to have a Saturday morning splurge on radio station WRVA. “Hey,” said a late arrival, “I heard Alden Aaroe talking about it.”

“We wanted people to see what we have here,” Rea said. “People who probably close their windows and lock their doors when they drive on Grace Street and want to get through here a quickly as possible.”

Well, yes, there must be those who look upon the 800 and 90 blocks as symbolic of the counterculture, as territory alien to their visions of West End and suburban existence. Last November the precinct serving the 800 and 900 blocks went for George McGovern, by two votes. Not a landslide, but, perhaps, a trend.

NOON WAS approaching. Rea and DeWitt set out on an inspection tour. Parking lot ropes were being put into place. Rock music blared from exotically named shops. The balloon committee was still short on manpower. An agent trotted out of a shop to report, “They’ve got 200 customers ...”

And how many would they normally have at this hour of a Saturday? “They wouldn’t be open,” Rea said.

Grace Street was becoming clogged with cars It would become more clogged. Don’t know how many drivers got out of their cars, but, for a while they were a captive audience making at least vicarious discovery.

Also much pedestrian and bicycle on the sidewalks. Merchants talked of espying strangers, of all ages. A white-haired woman held a prize egg in one hand, a balloon in the other. A middle-aged man had rakishly attached a balloon to the bill of his cap.

The fashion show went on to the accompaniment of semijazz music and popping balloons, most of them held by children. Fashions were subdued. A dress evocative of the 1940s. Long skirts. Loudest applause went to a man who paraded across the stage wearing a loud red backpack. Everybody’s urge to escape?

ON GRACE STREET a sword swallower and human pin cushion was on exhibition. No names please. “My mother ...” he said. He wished to be identified only as a member of “Bunkie Brothers Medicine Show.”

Discounted merchandise on sale included 20-yesr-old British Army greatcoats and a book fetchingly titled “Sensuous Massage.” Sales resistance remained firm.

On Harrison Street a sidewalk artist was creating. A wino, who had somehow escaped the dragnet, lurched across the sidewalk art muttering. “Free balloons ...” In a shop a man said, “I want the skimpiest halter you have ... for my wife.”

On an alley paralleling Grace Street, a man holding a hand camera and early on a VCU class assignment was directing actors. One stationed in a huge trash bin. “Waiting for Godot” revisited? The second, carrying a an umbrella in one hand, popcorn in another, approached the bin. A hand darted out for popcorn. “I ran out of film!” screamed the director.

Everything was being done again. The actor in the bin emerged, seized the umbrella and ran. “Chase him,” from the direct. Actor No. 2 did a Keystone Kop-style double take, jumped and ran. A small crowd that had gathered applauded.

LATE IN the day. Traffic still was at a saturation level. Early settlers said the territory hadn’t seen such suggestion since the movie, “Deep Throat.” Rea spoke of objectives smashingly achieved. Euphoric talk from him on another day of discovery in September. City Hall would be petitioned to block off Grace Street.

* *

Banned for Life

It should come a no surprise to most film buffs that there was sometimes a dark side to the business of doing business after dark. While some saw the Biograph as a beacon in the night, for others it was a place to hide out from a sad reality. Like any business, sometimes things just went wrong.

Although nearly everyone who worked at the Biograph was on the up-and-up, there were a couple of rotten apples that weren’t. (As I hired both of them, I have to take the blame there. But that’s another story.)

A man died watching “FIST.” He was in his early-30s. He breathed his last sitting in a seat in the small auditorium. The movie was bad, but not that bad. His face was expressionless, he just expired. As the rescue squad guys were shooting jolts of electricity into his heart, and his body was flopping around like a fish out of water on Theater No. 2’s floor, down in Theater No. 1 “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” was on the screen delighting its usual crowd of costumed screwballs.

There was a night someone fired five shots of high-powered ammo through one of the back exits into Theatre No. 1. The bullets came through the two quarter-inch steel plates that formed the door to splinter seats. Amazingly, no one was hit. It happened just as the crowd was exiting the auditorium, about 11:30 p.m. and I don’t think anyone even caught on to what was happening. It was never determined why it happened.

A rat died in the Coca-Cola drain once and clogged it up. Havoc ensued when I poured a powerful drain clearing liquid -- we called it Tampax Dynamite -- into the problem, not knowing about the rat. Well, it started bubbling and backing up to erupt into a horrible flooding mess that smelled wretched!

Then there was Drake the Flake, who was banned from the Biograph for life in 1972. Then 20 years later he turned up in California as a serial killer. Supposedly, Drake, who always had fancied himself as an actor, had made up a long list of people he intended to pay back. He had gotten to only six of them when, as the cops closed in on him, he took his own life. Drake wore grease paint on his face when he committed his murders.

It seems Woody Drake's childhood was straight out of a horror movie. He was always a problem to those around him. What follows are excerpts of a piece I wrote for SLANT in December 1992:

“...The November 16th edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch carried Mark Holmberg’s sad and sensational story of Woody Drake. As usual, Holmberg did a good job with a bizarre subject. In case you missed the news: Lynwood Drake, who grew up in Richmond, murdered six people in California on November 8 [1992]. Then he turned the gun on himself. His tortured suicide note cited revenge as the motive.

An especially troubling aspect of Holmberg's account was that those Richmonders who remembered the 43 year old Drake weren't at all surprised at the startling news. Nor was I. My memory of the man goes back to the early days of the Biograph Theatre (1972). At the time I managed the West Grace Street cinema. So the unpleasant task of dealing with Drake fell to me.

Owing to his talent for nuisance, the staff dubbed him ‘Drake the Flake.’ Although he resembled many of the hippie-style hustlers of the times, it was his ineptness at putting over the scam that set him apart. Every time he darkened our door there was trouble. If he didn't try to beat us out of the price of admission or popcorn, there would be a problem in the auditorium. And without fail, his ruse would be transparent. Then, when confronted, he'd go into a fit of denial that implied a threat. Eventually that led to the incident in Shafer Court (on VCU's campus) when he choked a female student [Susan Kuney] who worked at the Biograph.

That evening he showed up at the theater to see the movie, just like nothing had happened. Shoving his way past those in line, he demanded to be admitted next. An argument ensued that became the last straw. Drake the Flake was physically removed from the building, tossed onto Grace Street, and banned from the Biograph for life.

The next day, Drake made his final appearance at the Biograph. He ran in through the lobby's exit doors and issued a finger-pointing death threat to your narrator. Although I tried to act unruffled by the incident, it made me more than a little uncomfortable. In spite of the anger of his words, there was an emptiness in his eyes. In that moment he had pulled me into his world. It was scary and memorable.

Using a fine turn of phrase, Holmberg suggested that, “Whatever poisoned the heart of Woody Drake happened in Richmond...”

If you want more evidence of the origins of the poisoning, take the time to look him up in his high school yearbooks (Thomas Jefferson 1967/68). Pay particular attention to the odd expression in his eyes. Looking at Drake’s old yearbook photos reminded me of a line in the movie 'Silence of the Lambs.' In reference to the serial-killer who was being sought by the FBI throughout the film, Dr. Lechter (a psychiatrist turned murderer himself) tells an investigator that such a man is not born; he is created.

There is no doubt in my mind. Someone close to Lynwood Drake III, when he was a child, systematically destroyed his soul. So while we can avert our eyes from the painful truth, we basically know where the poison is administered to the Woody Drakes of the world..."

Yes, we do.

The assembly line for such monsters runs through their homes. The story goes that Woody Drake liked to beat up women. After I threw him out of the Biograph and he disappeared, several people told us about various females he had hurt. His last act before he shot himself to death was to whack a 60-year-old former landlady in her head with a blackjack. She lived to tell her story.

* *

Swordfish of 1976

On Saturday, May 5, 2007 another Kentucky Derby Day softball reunion was held. Anyone who ever played on the now defunct team was welcome, plus their families, friends, etc. The annual parties began in 1980, when the Biograph Theatre’s softball team was one of the cars attached to a runaway train known as the Fan District Softball League (1975-94).

The four pictured at this mid-'90s softball reunion were Biograph assistant managers during my stint as manager. Left-to-right they are: Bernie Hall, who was assistant manager from 1973-76; Trent Nicholas from 1976-78; Chuck Wrenn from 1972-73. Mike Jones followed Trent from 1978-83, then served as manager from 1983-87.
(photo: Ernie Brooks)

A fine picnic spread was laid out and consumed. Cold beer flowed as the same stories were stretched, again. The horse race was watched on a little battery-powered TV.

Several of the guys at this year’s gathering were teammates of mine in 1976, when I was the manager of the Biograph, a repertory cinema that was located at 814 West Grace Street. That was the first summer of organized softball at the Biograph. We called our team the Swordfish, after a joke in a Marx Brothers movie. That year the Swordfish played a schedule that was not set; we challenged other teams, which played in organized leagues (mostly Fan League teams), to play us for a keg of beer.

The Biograph Swordfish won 15 games (that were scheduled and umpired) of the 17 we played that initial season. In spite of having few experienced softball players on a roster, which included two French guys (friends of one of the cinema’s cashiers) — they had never seen a softball, or even a baseball — we probably won half of them by coming from behind in late innings.

Typically, our opponents saw themselves as more experienced and athletically superior, which only made it more fun when they bumbled their way into handing us the victory. It was uncanny. Those supposedly better teams seemed forever willing to overplay their hands.

Now, having played and observed a lot of organized softball, I know that first Swordfish squad was absolutely charmed. It was the loosest and luckiest team I’ve ever been associated with, bar none.

The Swordfish’s two losses were in extreme situations. The first was the championship game of one of the two tournaments we entered. The other was played inside the walls of the old state penitentiary.

Located at Belvidere and Spring Streets, the fortress prison loomed over the rocky falls of the James River for nearly 200 years (it was demolished in the early-1990s). As it happened the guy in charge of recreation at the pen frequented J.W. Rayle, a popular bar of the era, located at Pine and Cary. In that bar, during a conversation, he asked me if the Biograph team — I played outfield and served as the coach — would consider taking on the prison’s team on a Saturday afternoon.

As it turned out the first date he set up was canceled, due to something about a small riot.

OK.

A couple of weeks later the Swordfish entered the Big House. To get into the prison yard we had to go through a process, which included a cursory search. As I recall, we had been told to bring nothing in our pockets. Thus, we had our softball equipment and that was it.

As we worked our way through the ancient passageways, sets of bars were unlocked and then locked behind us. Each of us got a stamp on our hands that could only be seen under a special light. Someone asked what would happen if the ink got wiped off, inadvertently, during the game. He was told that was not a good idea.

OK.

The game itself was like all softball games, in ways, and rather unusual in others. The umpire for the games — two games were played that day as J.W. Rayle played the prison team first, then the Swordfish — came in with us. He was a somewhat notorious Fan Leaguer who played on another team, Cassell’s, and who later wrestled professionally — Dennis “Dr. Death” Johnson.

The fence in leftfield was the same high brick wall that ran along Belvidere Street. It was only about 225 to 240 feet from home plate. Yet, because of its height, maybe 30 feet, a lot of hard-hit balls caromed off of it. What would have been a routine fly ball on most fields was a home run there. It was a red brick version of Boston’s Green Monster.

The prison team, known as the Raiders, was quite good at launching softballs over that towering brick wall. They seemed to have an unlimited budget for softballs, too. Under the supervision of watchful guards hundreds of other prisoners, seated in stands, cheered for the home team to vanquish the visiting Swordfish.

During a conversation with a couple of my teammates behind the backstop, I referred to the home team as “the prisoners.” Our opponents’ coach stepped toward me. Like his teammates, he was wearing a typical softball uniform of that era — it was a maroon and gray polyester affair, with “Raiders” printed across the chest in a script and a number on the back.

We just had identical blue hats with a “B” on them. About half of us wore one of a couple of recently printed, but different, Biograph T-shirts models.

“Call us the Raiders,” he advised, somewhat sternly, as he pointed to a mural on the prison wall that said “Home of the Raiders.”

I realized I’d made a faux pas, right away.

“While we are on the field, we’re not The Prisoners,” he said with conviction, “we’re the Raiders.”

“Raiders,” I said. “Right.”

“And, all our games are home games,” he deadpanned.

We all laughed, grateful the tension had been broken. He thanked us for being there, for agreeing to play them.

The Raiders won, in a tight, high-scoring affair. Afterward, I was glad we’d met the Raiders. And, I was even more glad to leave that place. Now, I’m so glad that prison is no longer there. Located in the middle of Richmond, it was a nightmare in so many ways.

This yarn was a small part of a sepia-toned softball season so long ago it seems like a dream now. The subsequent Biograph teams that played in the Fan District Softball League until it folded in 1994 never saw anything even close to such raw success, again.

It seemed so easy then … now I truly wonder how we did it.

* *

Lois Chokes on an Egg McWhatever

The staff art show that hung during the Biograph’s second anniversary party on Feb. 11, 1974 -- which featured the rather well-attended The Devil and/in Miss Jones prank -- included various works by several then-current employees and some former staff members, too. The piece to the left, by yours truly, was made then to hang in the space of the lobby’s gallery that usually featured the artists' statements. Most of those who worked at the theater in the early days were artists of one stripe or another.

I also had a couple of pieces in the show. One of them sold and that was fun. Another piece was stolen. That was a bummer and a weird kind of violation.

Although most of the art shows that hung in the gallery displayed the work of local/VCU-connected artists, that was not always the case. In the first three or four years, when the walls of the lobby regularly featured shows that changed every couple of months, or so, occasionally art by then-renown artists, usually printmakers, was on display. Among them were Ernest Trova, Robert Indiana and sculptor George Segal.

In the summer of 1978, the same time as the Rocky Horror Picture Show began its five-year run at midnight, we had a show up that was memorable for an odd reason. It was a group of silkscreen prints and paintings by Barry Fitzgerald, who drove a cab and sometimes played keyboard in a popular local band, Single Bullet Theory.

Fitzgerald’s work had a pop art, reaction-to-advertising look. His droll sense of humor showed in a series of a half-dozen similar paintings. Each had a large line drawing in black against a background of a flat field of a single color. The renderings were done in the sparse style of a government pamphlet. Each had the same girl, Lois, coughing as she faced the viewer. Each had a caption written across the bottom of the colored panel which explained that Lois was choking on something. I think Barry was asking about $100 apiece for them.

Let’s say the first one was blue. It might have said, “Lois chokes on a gumdrop.” I think one of them did say that. The next one could have been yellow, it would have said something like, “Lois chokes on a pocket watch,” and so forth. The only other caption I remember had Lois choking on an Egg McMuffin; that one I’m sure of.

One day a man claiming to be a lawyer called me to say I had to take the Egg McMuffin piece down, pronto. He told me he was a local guy, who’d been talking that day with an attorney for the McDonalds fast food empire. He asserted that if I didn’t take it down McDonalds was going to lay some legal action on the artist, the Biograph and me.

For my part, I said something like, “What!”

The caller explained that it wasn’t a matter of Fitzgerald saying anything against McDonalds’s signature breakfast sandwich, which was fairly new then. No. The problem was that McDonalds wanted to protect the use of the words “Egg McMuffin.” They didn’t want it to become a generic term for a sandwich made by anyone using the same ingredients, etc.

Then I must have said something like, “What!”

Anyway, the threat finished with how I better do what the caller said, because all the law was on McDonalds’ side.

Well, I called a friend who is a lawyer to ask him what he thought. He said I ought to buy the painting. Then I told Fitzgerald what had happened. He loved it. We decided to leave it up.

So, what happened? Never heard from the wannabe McDonalds lawyer again. For a long time I’ve wished I had bought the painting.

* *

A Flashback

Working in show business can be tough duty. Ask anybody who knows -- it’s not all laughs, but the best part of it always involves laughs. For instance, one evening a couple of traveling porn queens came by the theater. Naturally, they asked for the manager.

Theater manager reacts to Honey's friendly gesture

So I was fetched from my sanctuary office to talk with Annie Sprinkle and another woman who claimed she was from Richmond (Hermitage High). Sometimes, the X-rated touring performers from the live shows at the Lee Art Theater in the next block of Grace stopped by, so I figured that was the deal.

Like, maybe they were film buffs who wanted free passes?

They had a limo parked in front of the theater. Their driver was a dwarf. No joke. After what sounded to me like a lot of cocaine-driven nonsense about a glossy magazine spread, and how they'd been to other local landmarks, Annie asked me to pose in front of the theater with the other lady.

Those were simpler times. Why not?

As Annie told me to stand a little closer, what’s-her-name? -- I think it might have been Honey -- gave me a hug and flashed what I quickly suspected to be her left breast. My reaction was honest, spontaneous. The duo had what they wanted, so they giggled and piled back into the limo. My co-workers couldn't stop laughing, as they had seen the whole thing through the cinemascopic front windows.

Later the silly picture showed up in Partner, a forgettable low-rent rag . The feature displayed other shots of Honey in similar flash modes in front of various familiar local backdrops.

To change the subject, the very next year Grace Street was changed from a west-only one-way street to two-way. The change was probably toughest on the winos, but it wasn’t easy on anybody. That neighborhood hasn't been the same since. And, good night Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are...

* *

Andre Came to Dinner

For the Biograph’s 10th anniversary (Feb. 11, 1982) we booked “My Dinner with Andre,” which had been shot in 16mm by director Louis Malle in Richmond’s Jefferson Hotel. It was the film’s Virginia premiere.

The art-house picture depicted a conversation over dinner by two old friends, who discussed their opposing philosophies and their conclusions about life. The food used in the scenes in the movie was provided by local chef/caterer Chris Gibbs. He showed up on the set at the hotel, which was closed and undergoing a major renovation, every morning with a fresh batch of Cornish hens and wild rice, which then had to be made to look half-eaten and set before the actors.

Several locals appeared in small parts and as extras in the picture. For its premiere party at the Biograph, which also served as a $25-a-head fundraiser for VCU’s Anderson Gallery, Gibbs served up the same meal as was displayed and consumed in the movie.

It went over like Gangbusters.

* *

Art: What It Is

In a Richmond, Virginia courtroom in November of 1982 I witnessed an entertaining scene in which an age-old question -- what is art? -- was hashed out in front of a patient judge, who seemed to thoroughly enjoy the parade of exhibits and witnesses the attorneys put before him. The gallery was packed with art students wearing paint-speckled dungarees, gypsy musicians and film buffs.

The defendant was this story’s teller, then the manager of the Biograph Theatre. When I got charged with a misdemeanor for posting a handbill I had designed promoting a midnight show, it was a bust I deliberately provoked. At that time I was determined to beat the City of Richmond with a freedom of speech defense.

At the crucial moment a popular VCU art professor, Gerald Donato, was testifying as an expert witness. He was being grilled over just where to draw the line between what should be, and what should not be, considered as genuine art. The Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney asked the witness if the beat-up piece of paper in his hand -- the offending handbill, which had gotten its creator busted -- could actually be "art."

“Probably,” shrugged the prof. “Why not?”

The flyer, promoting a midnight show at an area cinema, had been posted on a utility pole near a college campus. Rather than pay the small fine for breaking The City’s law forbidding such posters on poles in the public way, I opted for a day in court. My defense attorneys attacked the statute itself as overreaching. They asserted their client had a right to post the handbill and the public even had a right to see it.

The stubborn prosecutor grumbled, reasserting that the flyer was no more than “litter.”

Eventually, having grown weary of the high-brow vernacular being slung around by the witnesses supporting my position, the prosecutor tried one more time to trip the clever witness up. As Warhol's soup cans had just been mentioned by the art expert, he narrowed his eyes to ask, “If you were in an alley and happened upon a pile of debris spilled out from a tipped-over trashcan, could that be art, too?”

“Well,” said the witness, pausing Jack Benny-like for effect, “that would depend on who tipped the can over.”

Donato’s line and delivery was perfect. The courtroom erupted into laughter. The obviously amused judge fought off a smile. The crestfallen prosecutor gave up. The City lost the case. Although I got a kick out of the crack, too, I’ve always thought The City’s mouthpiece missed an opportunity to hit the ball back across the net.

“Sir, let me get this right,” he might have said, “are you saying the difference between art and randomly-strewn garbage is simply a matter of whose hand touched it; that the actual appearance of the objects, taken as a whole, is not the true test? Furthermore, are you telling us that without credentials, such as yours, one is ill-equipped to determine the difference between the contents of a trashcan and fine art?”

Yes, the prosecutor gave up too soon because, whether the wise-guy professor admitted it, or not, that is exactly where he was coming from. A smarter lawyer could well have exploited that angle.

Still, the prosecutor’s premise/strategy that an expert witness could be compelled to rise up to brand a handbill for a movie, “Atomic Cafe,” a green piece of paper with black ink on it, as “un-art” was absurd. So, the wily artist probably would have one-upped the buttoned-down lawyer, no matter what.

Perhaps the question shouldn’t have been -- how can you tell fake art from real art? After all, any town is full of bad art, and good art, and all shades of in-between art. Name your poison. Isn’t it better to ask -- what is worthwhile or useful art?

Then you become the expert witness.

* *

Chasing Dignity

“...Now once more the belt is tight and we summon the proper expression of horror as we look back at our wasted youth. Sometimes, though, there is a ghostly rumble among the drums, an asthmatic whisper in the trombones that swings me back into the early twenties when we drank wood alcohol and every day in every way grew better and better, and there was a first abortive shortening of the skirts, and girls all looked alike in sweater dresses, and people you didn’t want to know said ‘Yes, we have no bananas,’ and it seemed only a question of a few years before the older people would step aside and let the world be run by those who saw things as they were — and it all seems rosy and romantic to us who were young then, because we will never feel quite so intensely about our surroundings any more.”

— from “Echoes of the Jazz Age” (1931) by F. Scott Fitzgerald

In the summer of 1978, with the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” playing to the delight of a packed house, a fight broke out in the middle of Grace Street. Insults, rocks and bottles flew back and forth between the two factions of four each: Virginia Commonwealth University frat boys vs. an Oregon Hill crew. Their battle was unfolding a perilous 25 to 30 yards from the Cinemascopic all-glass front of the Biograph Theatre, a Fan District cinema I then managed.

At the same time a group of my softball friends were in the lobby playing a pinball machine. As manager, I felt obliged to drive the danger away, so I opened an exit door and yelled that the cops were already on the way, which they were.

The frat boys scampered off. Their opposites simply switched over to bombing me. A tumbling bottle shattered on the sidewalk. Rocks bounced closer as I closed the door. A piece of brick smashed through it to strike my right shin.

When we lit out after them, there were at least a half dozen men running in my impromptu posse of employees and pinball players. The hooligans scattered, but my focus was solely on the one who’d plunked me. Hemmed in by three of us in a parking lot, he faked one way, then cut to the other. His traction gave way slightly in the gravel paving, and I tackled him by the legs.

The others got away. With some help from my friends, we marched the captured 19-year-old back toward the theater. During the trek east on Grace, the culprit said something that provoked one in my group to suddenly punch him. That, while the punchee’s arms were being held.

A policeman, who had just arrived, saw it. He sarcastically complimented the puncher for his aggressive “technique” before the street-fighting man was hauled off in the paddy wagon. In contrast, I told the vigilante puncher he had overreached in hitting the kid unnecessarily, especially while he was helpless.

Surprised by my reaction, my softball teammate laughed. So I said something like, Hey, we’re no better than the fascists we’ve claimed to deplore if we resort to their tactics. He disagreed, saying his summary punishment would likely be the only price the little thug would pay for his crime. Another in the group agreed with him.

It wasn’t long after that night I found myself poring over an essay by F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Echoes of the Jazz Age.” The excerpt above is the evocative piece’s last paragraph. During that rereading, it occurred to me the shattering glass door had been the sound of the hippie era ending for me.

Yes, we baby boomers were about to see that our sweetest day in the sun, with its causes and rock ’n’ roll anthems, had been another dollop of time, a period with its look and sound, not unlike others. In some ways, the Roaring ’20s redux.

A month later I agreed to the court’s proposal to drop the assault charge, provided the brick-thrower was convicted of a misdemeanor and paid for the damage. A payment schedule was set up. As we spoke several times after that, I came to see the young man wasn’t such a bad guy. Payment was made on time. He asked for the name of the man who’d punched him. While withholding the name, I agreed with him that the blow had been a cheap shot.

About a year later a thief snatched a handful of dollar bills from a Biograph cashier, then bolted. The cashier’s frightened look triggered an alarm in your narrator’s sense of duty/propriety. Her face was quite expressive, and I was still young enough to think chasing criminals down the street was normal. Quaint as it may sound now, it seemed then that some collective sense of dignity was at stake.

In short, it took about 10 minutes to discover the thief’s hiding place, then turn him over to the policemen who’d shown up. I received some unexpected help in cornering him. As I ran west on Grace behind the 20-year-old grab-and-run artist, another young man — a total stranger — jumped out of his truck to join in the chase.

Later, when the dust settled, I asked the volunteer why he’d stopped. He answered that he knew I was the Biograph’s manager because a buddy of his had once pointed me out. His friend? It was the same street-fighter I’d tackled a year before.

The willing assistant chaser told me his friend assured him I’d dealt fairly with him; consequently he felt he owed me a favor. Before he left, my collaborator said that in his neighborhood they stick together. Thus, he’d supported me to help pay his friend’s debt. We shook hands.

Over the years what connects those two chase scenes has become increasingly more satisfying. No doubt that’s because so many times over the years, in dealing with bad luck and other ordinary tests of character, I’ve done nothing to write home about — even the wrong thing. At least in this story maybe I got it right.

The point?

Dear reader, in spite of the wall-to-wall cynicism of our current age, there really was a time when cheap shots — delivered mostly because you can get away with them, so why not? — were seen in a bad light.

Through the mist of “ghostly rumbles” and “asthmatic whispers,” to some graying hippies, that hasn’t changed.

* * *

Click here to read Part Three and Part Four of "Biograph Times"

All rights reserved by the author. Words, art and photos by F.T. Rea, unless otherwise noted. Copyright 2007

Biograph Times, Parts Three and Four

Part Three: The Jellypig Hunch

When one divines from thin air the presence of a specific person in connection with some unexplained occurrence -- without a whit of further evidence -- what real trust should one put in such a raw instinct ... or, perhaps in his imagination? In the real world how far should anyone go in acting strictly on a hunch?

The darkest aspects of the heretofore untold story of my leaving the Biograph Theatre began with a ringing telephone on an Indian Summer evening in 1981. I put the Sunday newspaper aside, picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”

There was no reply.At that moment there were no clues, there was no reason to think it was more than a wrong number, or perhaps a malfunction on the line. Yet, after listening to an eerie silence for half a minute and repeating “hello” a few times, hanging up the phone I sensed I knew the person at the other end of the line.

That mysterious feeling was replaced by a flicker of a thought that named a specific person ... then the sensation faded into a queasiness that made me go outside for some air. It seemed for an instant that I knew something there was no way for me to know. Moreover, I didn’t want to know it.

Thus the process began -- unbeknownst to me, as I walked toward the closest bar, the Village,
I was already caught in an undertow that would eventually carry my spirit away from everything that mattered. My maternal grandmother had told me a thousand times to never go against a hunch. Had I have discussed it with her she would have said that a clear message from my inner voice should trump all else.

Instead of seeking her counsel I asked only myself -- “why would that person call me, to hang on the line and say nothing?” It made no sense. That wise grandmother, who had played the role of a parent to me, would have told me not to doubt my hunch, to trust in it as a matter of faith. Now I know she understood that a hunch is a bolt from the blue that cannot be gathered and investigated.

Now, a quarter century later, I fully understand that while a hunch can be remembered, it can’t be revisited like a conclusion. A hunch can only felt once.

However, at the time I walked into the bar, for a number of reasons it was convenient for me to view this particular hunch as suspect, even a counterfeit. A few weeks later, by the time the calls had become routine, the whole concept of believing in hunches was on its way out. A grown man needed to rise above such superstition.

Still, the phone would ring and ring until I picked it up.

The caller never made a sound. Sometimes I’d listen as hard as I could for a while, trying to hear a telltale sound. Usually, I hung up right away. The reader should note that telephone answering machines, while available then, were not yet cheap. Most people did not have one at this time.

*

After a haphazard year-and-a-half of one-night stands and such, following the break-up of my ten-year marriage, at this time I had a new girlfriend. Tana was funny, long-legged, sarcastic, and she could be very distracting. She was a fine art major who waitressed part-time at one of the strip’s busiest saloons, the Jade Elephant. Because she stayed over at my place about half the time she knew about the calls. She was the only person who knew anything about it then. She was sworn to secrecy, but I didn’t let her in on my hunch.

Mostly, I just let Tana distract me.

She urged me to contact the authorities, or at least to get an unlisted phone number. Offering no real explanation, I wasn’t at all comfortable with either move. Playing my cards close to the vest, I simply acted as if it didn’t really bother me. We spent a lot of time riding our bikes and playing Frisbee-golf.

As I rummage through my memory of this time now, the images are smeared and spooky. My nose was broken and split open in a league basketball game in March of 1982, and by coincidence I saw my grandmother on a stretcher at the hospital. She died that night. Nothing has been the same since. The stalking telephone calls became more frequent in the days and nights that followed.

Wherever I went, home, office, or someone else’s place, the phone would ring. Then there would be that same diabolical silence when it was answered.

Anxiety became my familiar companion, although I didn‘t know then to call it by that name. While I surely needed to do something decisive about the telephone problem, the energy just couldn’t be mustered. I just kicked that can down the road.

If someone had told me I was sinking deeper and deeper into a major depression, well, I would have laughed it off. In my view, then, depression was an affliction of people who were bored. It never occurred to me that pure confidence was leaking out of my psyche, spilling away forever.

Unfortunately, my narrow view of the problem centered around the mystery of who and why.

Part of the persona I had created and projected in my life as the Biograph’s manager was that everything came easily to me. I liked to hide any hard work or struggle from the public, even the staff at times. While I might have wrestled with the artwork for a Midnight Show handbill for days, I would act as if it had been dashed off in an hour.

Looking back on it now I’d say that pose was part of a cool image I wanted to project for the theater, itself. Living inside such a pretend world -- within a pretend world -- rather than seeing the debilitating effect the dogged phone calls were was having on me, I saw only clues. My strategy was to outlast the caller, to close in on him like a hard-boiled movie sleuth, all, without ever letting anyone know it was getting to me.

Since the calls started around the time I began seeing Tana, it seemed plausible it could have to do with her. Maybe an old boyfriend? Also, there was my own ex -- maybe one of her new squeezes? Maybe my eccentric brother (who died in 2005)? Beyond those obvious possibilities, I poured over the smallest details of each and every personal relationship. My movie detective training told me it had to be someone with a grudge, so I created a list of prime suspects.

Misunderstandings with disgruntled former employees were combed through, rivals from various battles I’d fought over the years were considered. And, there were people I had hurt, out of just being careless. Soon it became habit to question the motives of those around me at every turn. In sly ways, they were all tested.

As I examined my history, searching through any details that could have set a grudge in motion, a new picture of Terry Rea emerged. I found reasons for guilt that had never occurred to me before. When I looked in the mirror, I began to see a different man, a self-centered phony. It was as if I had discovered a secret, grotesque portrait of what was left of my soul, hanging in the attic, like Oscar Wilde’s character -- Dorian Gray.

Then my old yellow Volvo wagon was rifled. A few things were taken, like clothes and tapes. But they didn’t touch the stereo. When my office at the theater was burglarized, some cash, my glasses and a photograph of me were stolen. I saw these crimes as connected to the phone calls.

Tana had been imploring me to have the calls traced. In late September, I finally agreed to do it. A woman I spoke with who worked for the telephone company told me I had to keep a precise record of the times of all the calls, and I had to agree to prosecute the guilty party if he was discovered. Although it had been nearly a year, I was still holding the mystery close to me and hadn’t mentioned it to anyone at the theater.

As the phone company’s pin register gadgetry soon revealed, there was good reason for that.

One way or another, I managed to get information out of the telephone company without actually getting onboard with the police part of it. The bottom line was this -- there were two numbers on the list of traced calls that coincided with nearly all the calls on my record. One was a pay phone in Goochland County, the other was the Biograph’s number.

Several of those calls were placed from the theater, well after it had closed. After looking at the record of the work schedule from the previous weeks, one employee had worked the late shift on each night a call came from the building after hours. Not coincidentally, this same man was the only person who lived in Goochland, twenty miles away. Most importantly, it was the man revealed by my original hunch -- he was the projectionist at the Biograph.

Now I refer to the culprit only as the “jellypig.”

Why jellypig?

Let’s just say he had a porcine, yet gelatinous way about him. Since the time of these events I have simply preferred to avoid using his real name. It suits me. People who are familiar with the cast of characters in this story still know his name, and that’s enough.

Although all the circumstantial evidence pointed at only one man, the thought of wrongfully accusing a person of such a terrible thing was, nonetheless, unbearable to me. Unfortunately, the pure confidence I needed in my conclusion was no longer in me. So, I continued to stew in my juices.

In November, I decided to a move, to flee my Grace Street apartment for a new pad further downtown, on Franklin Street. At a staff meeting, I revealed the story of the stalking that I had been enduring. I explained that for the time being I’d not be getting a new home phone. They were also told I had proof of who was actually behind the calls, but I said nothing about any of the calls having been made from the theater. And, I left them to guess at the villain’s identity.

Why?

Truth is, I don’t remember. Perhaps I was hoping to scare the jellypig and make him slink away.

*

Although the calls at my home ceased to be a problem, a week or so later a weird note was left in my car. Why that was the last straw I don’t know ... but it was.

The following afternoon, when no one else was in the building, I called the jellypig into my office and locked the door. Sitting at my desk, I looked the disgusting jellypig in the eye and calmly lowered the boom. It was like living in a black and white B movie. It didn’t seem real.

He looked scared and denied it flat. So, I told him about the traced phone calls. That news hit him hard; he collapsed into himself as if the air had come out of him. The sweating jellypig stared blankly at the floor. Then he insisted that someone ... somebody had to be framing him.

Wow! It hadn’t even occurred to me that he would simply lie in the face of such a strong case. To get him out of my sight I told him he had one day to come up with a better story, or the owners of the theater would be told and he’d turned over to the cops. I can’t remember what I said would happen if he came clean. Most likely, I was still hoping he’d just go away.

Maybe I didn’t have a plan.

The problem with just firing the jellypig right on the spot was that replacing him wouldn’t be so easy. Since late-1980, the Biograph had been operating as a non-union house. Because of an ongoing dispute with the local operators union, I was hiring our projectionists directly off the street.

As it happened, our original projectionist developed a problem with the local union over some internal politics. Later, his rivals took over. They fought, he got steamed and walked out. Which prompted the union to tell me to bar him from the booth. Although I was uncomfortable going against the union, politically, I felt standing by the individual I had worked with for eight years was the right thing to do.

The union’s reaction was to pull its men off the job. This eventually led to me hiring the man who became the jellypig to be a back-up projectionist. For reasons I can’t recall he was then at odds with the union, too, so he was willing to work at the Biograph in spite of the official boycott.

Subsequently, our full-time projectionist -- whose squabble had created the problem -- left to take a job with another theater that had also broken with the union. Which made it look like the whole town might follow our example and go non-union. Naturally, that put me in an even worse light with the union brass, who blamed me personally.

The jellypig seemed qualified to run the booth, so the easiest thing to do was promote him to full-time when the opening came about. Although I ’d never really checked up on him, like I usually did when I hired people, I put him in charge of the two projection booths.

Thus, if I fired the jellypig -- summarily and on the spot -- the Biograph didn’t have as many options as it should have, owing to the fact there was a very limited pool of qualified projectionists readily available to a non-union house. We had trained a couple of ushers to be backups, but they weren’t ready to run the whole operation.

It seemed I had little choice but to get in touch with the union for a replacement. Since the theater was in a slump, it was a bad time for operating expenses to go up, and I expected the pissed off union would go for some payback with a new contract.

The jellypig rushed into my office the next day with the big news -- he had solved the mystery! He claimed the person responsible for the calls was an old nemesis of his, an evil genius who was an electronics expert who could fool the phone company’s machinery. It seemed this comic book villain had a long history of playing terrible dirty tricks on the jellypig, going back to their tortured childhood at the orphanage in Pittsburgh.

Oh brother!

Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, the jellypig told me the guilty one was doing it all for two reasons: One was simply to heap trouble onto the house of the jellypig, who had a wife and two, or maybe it was three kids, to support. The other was to hurt your narrator, directly ... since the evil genius knew all.

Yes dear reader, at this point the jellypig puked up the news he had long been harboring a powerful carnal lust for me. Caught up in his performance, the jellypig began to sob, admitting it was all his fault. That was because he had foolishly shared the vital particulars of his secret craving with the evil one, himself.

OK. I know it makes no sense now, but as I listened to jellypig, along with disgust I began to feel something akin to pity. The jellypig assured me that he would do whatever it took to stop the evil genius from bothering me ever again. He begged me, literally on his knees, not to tell his wife or the theater’s owners about any of it. My mind was reeling and my stomach had turned.

As I told him to leave the office and let me think, I should have wondered which one of us was the craziest.

Not surprisingly, the tailspin the Biograph had gone into became wilder. The theater was loosing money. As the winter came and went, my spirits sank steadily. It was like being paralyzed so slowly it was almost imperceptible. During the spring, the two managing partners frequently brought up the subject of selling the Richmond Biograph.

In the meantime, the owners told me expenses had to be slashed drastically, meaning I had to let some people go. Who and how many was up to me, but salaries had to come in under a certain figure. I was given a few days to come up with a new plan that had to eliminate at least one of the two guys who has been there the longest.

Shortly thereafter, I was at my desk talking on the phone to a close friend about how I was putting out feelers for another job, because the Biograph was for sale. Without thinking, I gave him my brand new, unlisted home phone number, which had been put in Tana’s name. When I hung up, it struck me the damned jellypig might have heard me, if his ear had been up to the thin common wall between the booth and my office.

My telephone rang several times that night. That very night!

It was hell. I didn’t want to fire my friends to cut costs. Then it began to sink in, somewhat at the urging of Tana -- if I bowed out of the picture it would eliminate the biggest salary burden the theater had. It would address other problems, too. By this time I had a couple of minor health problems that were scaring me. Plus, the Biograph’s ability to negotiate with the local union would be less encumbered without me around. Good reasons for me to run away from 814 West Grace Street seemed everywhere I looked.

Tana was sure my moving on to something else was a great idea and long overdue. And, as she was graduating soon, she wanted us to travel together.

With no plan of where I would end up, I suddenly decided to walk away from what I had once seen as the best job in town. Without further thought I called my friends/bosses in DeeCee to tell them about my decision to leave and the jellypig business at the same time.

They were flabbergasted and urged me to reconsider, to take some time off.

However, I’m sure they were actually quite torn with what to do. The truth was, after nearly 12 years on the job, I was no longer the competent, resourceful manager I had been. Beyond that, we could all see the trend was turning sharply against what had been a darling of the ‘70s popular culture -- repertory movie houses. Such art houses were closing all over the country.

So, in mid-1983, the future for the Biograph looked dicey no matter what I did. The owners agreed with me that the jellypig had to go, as soon as possible. I added that I had gotten him to promise to get psychiatric help in exchange for me not calling the police. Of course, that seems loony, too, now.

So without much of an explanation to anyone else, I suddenly announced to whoever cared that I was moving on and looking forward to a life of new adventures. There was a small article in the morning newspaper noting that I had “retired.”

At the age of 35, I had retired.

Over lunch at Stella’s on Harrison St., soon after my inadequately explained departure from the Biograph, I told a former Biograph co-worker that maybe I had it all coming to me. I said something like my hubris and nonchalance had all but invited ruin. She got so angry with me she walked out of the restaurant.

What I couldn’t explain to anyone, because I didn’t understand it myself, was that I just had no confidence. I didn’t know what to do next at any given moment. My gift of gab had fled with my Young Turk’s cockiness. In the middle of a sentence, I would question how to end it. I began to avoid conversation because I stammered and would loose my thought in midstream.

As the summer wore on the jellypig wasn’t quickly replaced in the Biograph‘s booth, which galled me. Apparently the owners were struggling with the union over a new contract. That’s when I came up with the name “jellypig.” A few weeks after dropping my job like a hot potato I went by the theater to leave off a little drawing for him on the staff message board. It featured a cartoon character I created for the occasion -- the jellypig.

The character was a simple line drawing of a pig-like creature. He was depicted in a scene under a water line, chained to an anchor. He had little x’s for eyes. There were small bubbles coming from his head and drifting toward the water’s surface. The jellypig was almost smiling, he seemed unconcerned with his fate.

The caption read something like, “the jellypig takes a swim,” or “the jellypig’s day at the beach.” That began a short series of similar cartoons. The others all portrayed a suffering jellypig in that same droll tone. Yes, I did it to get into his head for a change. Let him worry.

Although I was no longer in charge of the theater, it was habit for me to have a say in it’s affairs. Which made for some awkward moments, because the cartoons weren’t funny to anybody but me. It put the new manager, Mike, who had been my assistant manager for five years, in an awkward position.

For about a year I had been doing a Thursday afternoon show on an semi-underground radio station, called Color Radio. From the studio I spoke on the phone with the jellypig. I don’t recall what precipitated the conversation. He told me he had blown off the notion of professional counseling. I warned him that he was breaking his bargain. He went on to say that he didn’t need any help, but that maybe I did.

The jellypig told me he resented the way I had treated him for a long time, deliberately excluding him from much of the social scene at the theater. He complained bitterly, saying I had always stood in the way of his advancement, but in spite of the way I had tried to poison the owners’ minds against him ... eventually, he would convince them to let him manage the Biograph to save money.

For the first time it hit me -- the jellypig’s entire effort had been a Gaslight treatment. All that time I’d been playing Bergman to his Boyer. At the heart of the matter the jellypig had wanted my job, all along.

All of the anger from what I had allowed to happen welled up in that moment -- I advised him that after my radio program ended, I was coming directly to the theater. If he was still there then I would break both of his legs with a softball bat.

When I got to the theater about an hour later he was long gone. I’ll never know what would have happened had he been there; maybe I would have only broken one leg. The jellypig worked a couple more shifts in the Biograph’s booth after that day. He had his children there with him, as human shields. Then he split for good.

It took my run for a seat on City Council in the spring of 1984 to break that stubborn spell of melancholia. Today, a ringing telephone still can still pull me back into that dark time.

Blowing off my hunch on that first call from the jellypig brought me more trouble than any other single mistake I’ve ever made. Yet the old question remains: Without tangible evidence, how far can one go in taking retaliatory or preemptive action, acting on a hunch, alone?

That’s the story of how I left the Biograph, which continued to struggle until it went dark in 1987. It’s as true as I could make it. Hopefully, this cautionary tale will be of some use to a troubled reader facing a dilemma, while standing knee-deep in self-doubt. My dear departed grandmother’s words about hunches now seem less like superstition and more like the best advice one can get.

Put another way, it simply meant -- “believe in yourself, trust your own senses.”

* * *

Part Four: Epilogue

The Sound

In the spring of 1984, I ran for public office. In case the Rea for City Council campaign doesn’t ring a bell, it was a spontaneous and totally independent undertaking. No doubt, it showed. Predictably, I lost, but I’ve never regretted the snap decision to run, because the education was well worth the price.

In truth, I had been mired in a blue funk for some time prior to my letting a couple of casual friends talk me into running, as we played foozball in a nightclub called Rockitz. Although I knew winning such an election was out of my reach, I relished the opportunity to have some fun mocking the system. Besides, at the time, I needed an adventure.

So it began. Walking door to door through Richmond’s 5th District, collecting signatures to qualify to be on the ballot, I talked with hundreds of people. During that process my attitude about the endeavor began to expand. People were patting me on the back and saying they admired my pluck. Of course, what I was not considering was how many people will encourage a fool to do almost anything that breaks the monotony.

By the time I announced my candidacy at a press conference on the steps of the city library, I was thoroughly enjoying my new role. My confidence and enthusiasm were compounding daily.

On a warm April afternoon I was in Gilpin Court stapling handbills, featuring my smiling face, onto utility poles. Prior to the campaign, I had never been in Gilpin Court. I had known it only as “the projects.”

Several small children took to tagging along. Perhaps it was their first view of a semi-manic white guy -- working their turf alone -- wearing a loosened tie, rolled-up shirtsleeves, and khaki pants.

After their giggling was done, a few of them offered to help out. So, I gave them fliers and they ran off to dish out my propaganda with a spirit only children have.

Later I stopped to watch some older boys playing basketball at the playground. As I was then an unapologetic hoops junkie, it wasn’t long before I felt the urge to join them. I played for about 10 minutes, and amazingly, I held my own.

After hitting four or five jumpers, I banked in a left-handed runner. It was bliss, I was in the zone. But I knew enough to quit fast, before the odds evened out.

Picking up my staple gun and campaign literature, I felt like a Kennedyesque messiah, out in the mean streets with the poor kids. Running for office was a gas; hit a string of jump shots and the world’s bloody grudges and bad luck will simply melt into the hot asphalt.

A half-hour later the glamour of politics had worn thin for my troop of volunteers. Finally, it was down to one boy of about 12 who told me he carried the newspaper on that street. As he passed the fliers out, I continued attaching them to poles.

The two of us went on like that for a good while. As we worked from block to block he had very little to say. It wasn’t that he was sullen; he was purposeful and stoic. As we finished the last section to cover, I asked him a question that had gone over well with children in other parts of town.

“What’s the best thing and the worst thing about your neighborhood?” I said with faux curiosity.

He stopped. He stared right through me. Although I felt uncomfortable about it, I repeated the question.

When he replied, his tone revealed absolutely no emotion. “Ain’t no best thing ... the worst thing is the sound.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, already feeling a chill starting between my shoulder blades.

“The sound at night, outside my window. The fights, the gunshots, the screams. I hate it. I try not to listen,” he said, putting his hands over his ears to show me what he meant.

Stunned, I looked away to gather my ricocheting thoughts. Hoping for a clue that would steady me, I asked, “Why are you helping me today?”

He pointed up at one of my handbills on a pole and replied in his monotone. “I never met anybody important before. Maybe if you win, you could change it.”

Words failed me. Yet I was desperate to say anything that might validate his hope. Instead, we both stared silently into the afternoon’s long shadows. Finally, I thanked him for his help. He took extra handbills and rode off on his bike.

As I drove across the bridge over the highway that sequesters his stark neighborhood from through traffic, my eyes burned and my chin quivered like my grandfather’s used to when he watched a sad movie.

Remembering being 12 years old and trying to hide my fear behind a hard-rock expression, I wanted to go back and tell the kid, “Hey, don’t believe in guys passing out handbills. Don’t fall for anybody’s slogans. Watch your back and get out of the ghetto as fast as you can.”

But then I wanted to say, “You’re right! Work hard, be tough, you can change your neighborhood. You can change the world. Never give up!” During the ride home to the Fan District, I swore to myself to do my absolute best to win the election.

A few weeks later, at what was billed as my victory party at Grace Place, an excellent organic food restaurant a quarter of a block west of my old haunt, the Biograph Theatre, I tried to be stoic as the telling election results tumbled in.

The incumbent carried six of the district’s seven precincts. I carried one. It was the VCU-dominated precinct in which the Biograph then existed. The total vote wasn’t even close. Although I felt like I’d been in a car wreck, I did my best to act nonchalant.

In the course of my travels since, I’ve heard Happy Hour wags laughing off Richmond’s routine murder statistics. They have scoffed when I suggested that maybe there are just too many guns about; I’ve been told that as long as “we” stay out of “their” neighborhood, there is little to fear.

But remembering that brave Gilpin Court newspaper boy, I know that to him the sound of a drug dealer dying in the street was just as terrifying as the sound of any other human being giving up the ghost.

That same boy would be in his mid-30s now, as I was when I met him, if he’s still alive. The ordeal he endured in his childhood was not unlike what children growing up in any number of the world’s bloody war zones are going through today. Plenty of them must cover their ears at night, too.

For the reader who can’t figure out how this story could eventually come to bear on their own life, then just wait ... keep listening.

* *

Postmortem Anniversaries

A few Biograph Theatre anniversaries have been celebrated since it closed in December 1987. The ones I know about were parties I organized/hosted. In 1989 I had a part-time gig as a bartender at The Attic in Northside, so it went down there. This one happened by word-of-mouth. We showed some videos and looked at old photos.

In 1992, for the 20th, I booked two acts, lined up a room -- Twisters (it was known as the Back Door in the 1970s, most recently the same location was the home of Nanci Raygun), promoted the event and even made up some T-shirts. We had the Useless Playboys as the headliner; Rebby Sharp did an opening set. I remember the late Carole Kass (perhaps the best friend the Biograph ever had) was there. The reunion aspect of it was nice.

For the 30th, in 2002, working with the Richmond Moving Image Coop, we showed several films and presented three bands at Poe’s Pub. Yes, of course “matinee Madcap” was screened. That party -- featuring Page Wilson with Reckless Abandon; Burnt Taters (now The Taters); Used Carlotta -- packed the house and raised a little money for RMIC.

As far as I could tell, we had a good time.

-- 30 --

All rights reserved by the author. Words, art and photos by F.T. Rea, unless otherwise noted. Copyright 2007

Wild card Rea never planned to play with a full deck

Feb. 6, 1994
"Wild card Rea never planned to play with a full deck"
by Sibella Connor, writing for the Richmond Times-Dispatch

Provided your corset isn’t laced too tightly, you could probably understand that F.T. Rea’s artwork is actually a sort of extended Public Service Announcement. Granted, it’s not your regular P.S.A. -- rarely politically correct or even serious. But then, precious little is regular with this irreverent artist and writer.

In one sentence, Rea’s P.S.A. might go like this: “Don’t believe everything you read.”

Fair enough, it would seem.

But given the reaction his ideas -- appearing most frequently in the alternative periodical The Slant -- have received over the years, it would appear Richmond has more than its fair share of lungs grown accustomed to shallow breathing.

The fact is, not everyone enjoys reading Rea’s rambunctious little paper. His essays, which range from obituaries of the city’s more disaffected souls to discussions of TV violence, have led some people to call him a crackpot. A loony. Some weird guy living in the Fan who should shut up and get a job, for Pete’s sake.

Well, take a deep breath, Richmond, because Rea’s delivering another corset-popper.

“Slant Legends” is a deck of 12 cards with the faces of Richmond’s famous, infamous, and virtually unknown. Landing in several local bookstores last month, the $10 deck of “Legends” has already earned the mixed reaction Rea has come to expect.

“Some people really like them,” he said. “Other people sort of look at them and walk away scratching their heads.”

In addition to the obvious Virginia celebrities such as former Gov. Doug Wilder, Rea has tossed in a few oddball characters, friends he thinks should be celebrities -- a disc jockey, a guitar player and a “wizard.”

Each 2-by-3-inch card is signed by the artist and laminated for long life, although the legends themselves may hope the cards meet an early demise. Rea’s drawings verge on unflattering caricature, while the explanatory notes offer biographic tags nobody’s bragging about.

Joe Morrissey’s hyperkinetic eyebrows bounce above the identifier “Embattled Dude.” Richmond City Councilman Roy West looks nearly demonic, and has been labeled “Councilmanic Windbag.” And lawyer and BLAB-TV owner Michael Morchower has the face of a homely basset hound, with one word as explanation: “Mouthpiece.”

“I just like to tease people,” said Rea, sitting in his tidy Fan apartment.

Most of the “legends” first appeared in Slant, the biweekly broadsheet Rea has single-handedly cranked out since 1985. The Slant serves up Rea’s many splendored takes on the world, from what happened in Richmond last week to what happened years ago in Beirut.

It also offers Rea, 46, a place to show his art. But his Slant portraits usually have more words than what’s on the cards -- more words or more ammo, depending on how you look at it. For instance, Gov. George Allen pops up in the Legends deck with a simple tongue-in-cheeker: “Intellectual/Governor.”

But his grinning portrait in Slant after last November’s election carried the following quote: “...And finally, I want to thank those Democrats who helped so much -- Doug Wilder, Patricia Cornwell, and whoever dressed Mary Sue in that K mart Maggie Thatcher look.”

The jab is vintage Rea. Artist as gadfly.

In between scraping by as a graphic artist and publishing Slant, Rea has heard the disparaging words, Get a job.

“Even my good friends tell me that all the time, ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ Well I had a job for a long time, and to tell you the truth, I apply for jobs I think I’m qualified for all the time, part-time PR and things like that. And I don’t know, they never hire me. I guess I’m just not the corporate type.”

From all appearances though, it’d be hard to peg Rea as counter-culture. He looks like anything but the merry prankster, with his professorial demeanor and his dress code out a 1940s movie. Most often, he can be seen nattily attired in shirt and tie, his brown hair clipped short.

“I’ve never had a radical appearance,” he said. “Even during the hippie years, I never had long hair. Of course, that’s probably the Richmond in me.”

He can never resist another jab.

*

The city provides ample material for Rea, who’s known as Terry. But after awhile it becomes clear his relationship with the city is love-hate. Like so many gadflies, Rea bothers the sacred cow mostly because he cares about it. After all, he’s never left.

“I was raised in an offbeat fashion by my grandparents, my mother and the streets,” he said. During the 1960s, he attended Thomas Jefferson High School, but never saw the final ceremonies.

“I fled rather than graduated,” he said, laughing. “But when I went to school, I went to Thomas Jefferson. I had a very hard time sitting down for more than 10 minutes at a time. Consequently, I was tossed out of school on a regular basis.”

He bounced around Richmond for several years, landing odd jobs, then leaving them. At one point, he sold advertising for a radio station. Then in 1972, Rea found the Biograph Theatre on West Grace Street. It was a match made in heaven. A movie buff of the biggest sort, Rea appeared made [to manage] the [new] arthouse theater.

In his apartment, Hollywood biographies and film lore line his bookshelves -- not to mention the strange convolutions of his brain. Searching to explain certain situations, Rea often uses a scene from a movie -- “You know when John Wayne turns and says ... You know how Aubrey Hepburn looked in ‘Sabrina?’”

Run on a shoestring budget, the Biograph was modeled after a Georgetown theater by the same name. During the day there were Truffaut and Bergman films. And after awhile, there was porno after midnight.

“We did it to make money,” Rea said.

Along with its eclectic cinematic showings, the Biograph grew infamous for its personality, in large part due to Rea’s ring-leadership. In the summer of 1973, a Richmond civil court banned the Biograph from showing the porno movie “The Devil in Miss Jones.” Using the new yardstick sent down by the U.S. Supreme Court, judge and jury decreed the film violated the contemporary community standards of obscenity.

Four months later, the Biograph was celebrating its two-year anniversary. Rea wanted to give the public a present, so he offered free admission to anyone who wanted to see “The Devil and Miss Jones,” with the short feature “Beaver Valley.”

Five thousand people showed up for the several hundred seats in the theater. A radio helicopter circled the air above Grace Street, reporting on the line that stretched around the block. When the lights went down, not everyone in the audience was delighted to discover that “Beaver Valley” was a Disney documentary on river animals. Nor were they dancing in the aisles about the prepositional distinction that separated the banned porno flick and the 1941 black-and-white classic starring Robert Cummings -- a preposition that placed Miss Jones in vastly different proximities to the devil.

“Actually, there were people who thought they were seeing the censored version of the skin flick,” Rea said.

In the lobby, the laughing manager served cake and beer, thoroughly enjoying the joke with those patrons who could take it. Like most of Rea’s pranks, however, politics lurked near the punchline.

“Part of my point was, by whose community standards was this deemed naughty? I mean, five thousand people showed up to see what they thought was a porno flick, so you tell me whose community we’re talking about. Besides I had to come up with schemes like that to make people pay attention to the theater. We had no money for advertising.”

*

About the same time the Biograph was tossing banana peels on the pavement, Rea helped organize the Fan District Softball League. It was, typical of the Fan, a mixture of human types. Professionals, students, offbeat artists. Rea’s team quickly became known for its left-field mentality and underhanded tactics.

It included two guys from Europe who spoke no English and had no idea what softball was. Also on the roster was a life-size cardboard cutout of Mr. Natural, the hitchhiking cartoon character created by R. Crumb. Of course, not everyone appreciated the humor. But -- also, of course -- Rea milked it for all it was worth. He created a newsletter for the league, recording team statistics and standings.

“I made most of it up,” he said.

Softball in part explains why Leo Koury made the “Slant Legends” deck.

Koury remained on the FBI’s Most Wanted List for many years. And for many years, lived in Richmond. The [wanted] poster said Koury was “sought in connection with shooting murders of two individuals and attempted contract murder of three others, and conspiracy to kidnap an individual for substantial ransom payment.”

Koury was never caught, and died several years ago in San Diego, where he lived under an assumed name and worked at a convenience store. In the Legends’ deck, his card reads: “Umpire/Escape Artist.”

“Leo Koury was a softball umpire for our league,” Rea explained. “That’s how I knew him. He was the only one who put up with the Fan District league. He seemed like a very nice man, and actually if you asked a lot of people around here, you would get a full rainbow of perceptions, people who thought he was evil and people who thought he was wonderful. It depends on how you knew him.”

Rea’s softball antics eventually led him to BLAB-TV, the local public access channel. He hosted a sports sendup called “Mondo Softball,” which starred Rea’s athletic alter ego, Mutt DeVille (Rea dressed as a jock).

After Mondo Softball came "Mondo City," another sendup, this one devoted to popular culture. Both shows were almost too weird to be believed. In fact, “Mondo City” got so weird it went down in flames soon after a guest appearance by the rock/theatric group GWAR.

Rea recalled an “unusually provocative phone call from a female” coming in during the show, and a cameraman, who thought his camera wasn’t transmitting, zoomed in for a close-up of a GWAR costume -- the part of the costume bearing a rather sizable, anatomically unambiguous male body part.

Suddenly, somebody hit a switch. The camera came on. And the view of the penis was sent around the city, followed by some graphic discussion of it. Corset strings popped. And Michael Morchower, the station’s owner (and Slant Legend) issued formal apologies repeatedly.

“There were apologies all over the place,” Rea said. “But actually BLAB milked it for all the publicity they could get while protesting that they didn’t like it. It’s my understanding that the tape is a collector’s item among a certain set.”

“Actually,” he continued, “I don’t think that anybody got that upset over that. I’m sure Mike Morchower has seen worse than that. Have you ever seen his show?”

Morchower is the host of a weekly call-in show on legal matters, “Lawlines.”

“Take a look at that show and see if you think I’m being unkind.”

“Mondo City” survived the GWAR fiasco, but Rea’s rowdy heart had fled. The gadfly got swatted too hard.

“I got scared. I stayed away from the edge for a while and the next few shows just weren’t there. So I said, forget it.”

Would he consider doing it again?

“I would consider almost anything.”

As an aside -- perhaps -- Slant recently explained BLAB’s call letters: “Babbling Locals and Blowhards.” Rea did not exempt himself from categorization.

*

In 1984, Rea ran for Richmond City Council. “Predictably, I lost,” he wrote several years later in an issue of Slant. But the essay recounting his run in the 5th District was a winner. It represents the best of Slant, with writing that ranges from pungent to poignant.

He wrote: “Meeting the candidates, who ranged from soup to nuts, was a trip.” And he went on to describe the world of single-person candidacy, with Rea motoring to beleaguered housing projects like Gilpin Court to post fliers announcing his candidacy.

“Prior to my days as a candidate, Gilpin Court had been just another vague, scary place on the map,” he wrote.

Pounding the pavement with his staple gun and sneakers, he was soon joined by a group of neighborhood kids who followed him through Gilpin Court and distributed fliers. After all the other kids had grown bored “with the goofy white guy,” one boy remained with Rea.

“In an effort to be friendly, I tried to engage him in conversation,”

Rea wrote:

“That tactic met with little success. As we were finishing the last section to be covered (with leaflets), I asked him a question that had gone over well with children in other parts of town. ‘What’s the best thing and the worst thing about your neighborhood?’

“He stopped and stared through me. Although I felt uncomfortable about it, I repeated the question after a moment.

“Then he replied. His words hit hard, but he spoke without emotion.

‘Ain’t no best thing.’”

When asked about the candidacy, Rea sighed. “I found out real fast that I’m better off on the outside throwing my mudballs and making my comments than I am in the limelight and under the scrutiny that a political candidate lives with.”

“I think people want their political candidates a little more restrained than I’ve been. I’m not saying that’s the way it should be, but that’s the way it is.”

Rain or shine, poor or just dead broke, Rea continues to publish The Slant, cranking out the essays, paying tribute to the people and things he likes and dislikes, then fielding all calls for his head. He’s also branching out with more art work, which will be on display at Coffee & Co in Carytown this month. Somebody will always have something to say about Rea.

“I’ve always gotten wild reactions,” he said.

“Sometimes I can laugh it off. Other times, it’s more difficult. What’s bothered me more than anything is the hate mail and the strange characters who come out of the woodwork and think something I’ve written in The Slant is speaking to them in a special way.

“That’s just one more reason why I use a post office box.”

He distributes The Slant himself, dropping off 3,000 copies at about 90 places from Carytown to Shockoe Bottom. It’s on these distribution runs that Rea sometimes gets some of his best feedback.

“One time in the Fan Market, I was delivering a batch of The Slants and I was setting them down by the checkout,” he said. “A woman reached down and picked up a copy. She was in her late 50s, if I had to guess. Maybe a legal secretary. And she couldn’t have had any idea that the guy delivering those things was the same guy who wrote it.”

“She said to checkout guy, ‘You know why I read this?’ She waited for an answer, stuffing the periodical in her bag. Then she said: ‘Because it makes me feel less crazy.’”

Looking up at her, Rea thought one thing: “Boy, I must be doing my job.”

-- 30 --

Fan City Series

Below are the first three images of the Fan City Series of prints. This launches what is a new art venture for me. Click on the images, themselves, to enlarge them.
Fan City Series No. 1 -- "Fan District Cat" -- a 13" x 19" print on archival quailty paper with a matte finish (one of 45 prints).

Fan City Series No. 2 -- "NRBQ at High on the Hog" -- a 13" x 19" print on archival quailty paper with a matte finish (one of 45 prints).

Fan City Series No. 3 -- "Thirty Good Years" -- a 13" x 19" print on archival quailty paper with a matte finish (one of 45 prints).

Soon there will be other poster designs available; other images are on the drawing board. I can't say how delighted I am with the splendid quality of the state-of-the-art printing process that is being used. It has spawned a whole new wave of creativity. All of the posters in the Fan City Series are going to be the same size. Each run will be limited to 45 prints of the particular image. Each print of the three imgages above costs $45.00.

To ask questions or to buy one of prints please contact me:

F.T. Rea
ftrea9@yahoo.com
(804) 359-4864
PO Box 14761, Richmond, VA, 23221

Richmond's Coach Bobby Ross

From Benedictine to West Point
by F.T. Rea (Sept. 2004 issue of FiftyPlus)

Fresh out of Virginia Military Institute, Bobby Ross took on his first mission as a football coach in 1959. Benedictine High School’s dynamic athletic director, Warren Rutledge, hired the 22-year-old Ross coming off of a stellar athletic career at Benedictine and VMI. Now, forty-five years later, it seems the last mission of Ross’ distinguished coaching career -- which includes a college national championship and a trip to the Super Bowl -- will be to restore a measure of dignity to the pigskin program at the United States Military Academy.

Ross’ predecessor at West Point, Todd Berry, posted a 5-42 record before he was mercifully relieved of command in the midst of last season, a campaign in which Army eventually lost all thirteen of its scheduled games

Ross, at 67, obviously has his work cut out for him.

Some say this mission can’t be accomplished in the money-driven, brave new world of so-called amateur sports. How can he attract today’s top athletes to such an academically challenging institution, with a five-year military commitment in a time of war to follow? Others suggest that Ross, himself, is simply out-of-date.

Fine: Coach Ross is at ease operating as the underdog. Yes, and looking beyond the “0-13” and the “67,” Ross and West Point seem to be a perfect fit in many ways. Perhaps most importantly, right now they need one another.

The search committee that lured Ross out of retirement knew that its situation called for more than just a smart, tough-minded football coach. It cried out for a man who understood the Academy’s military-based system, who could hit the ground running. Having worn the cadet uniforms of both Benedictine and VMI, and coached at The Citadel, Ross certainly knows his way around a cadet corps.

Thus, with a natural grasp of the importance of tradition at West Point, Ross is accentuating the positive. “Coaching at a place like this,” he said, “is college football in its purest form. No compromises are made here.”

Ross’ most recent stint as a head coach was in the National Football League with the Detroit Lions. Two-thirds of the way through the 2000 season, his fourth in Detroit, Ross announced he was stepping down, due to mounting health concerns. Cynics assumed he was burned out. Truth be told, his decision was precipitated by the reappearance of painful blood clots in his right leg (his father had suffered from similar problems, and eventually lost both of his legs).

Why did a man who shouldn’t have anything to prove come out of a comfortable retirement? With a clarity that might well flow from being accustomed to fielding the same questions repeatedly, Ross answered politely: “I felt like I had a lot of energy. Then the competitive instincts were returning.”

When Ross speaks of football, his voice reveals little about his state of mind. It’s his business, after all, and he sounds much like the thoughtful professional. On the other hand, when he talks about Chiocca’s, a restaurant in Richmond’s Benedictine neighborhood -- “The best roast beef sandwich I've ever had!” -- or afternoon walks through the same neighborhood, where his wife grew up, or when he reminisces about old ballfields such as Hotchkiss, near where he grew up, and the diamond in Byrd Park where Benedictine used to play its home games, his warmth for his hometown is unrestrained

“I love Richmond,” said Ross, with his unchanged Richmond accent. “It's my home, and always will be.”

Ross and his wife, Alice, have five children and fifteen grandchildren. His son Kevin, who graduated from the Naval Academy in 1988, is now on his father’s staff, serving as Army’s offensive coordinator.

Asked about Bobby Ross, Benedictine's current athletic director, Barry Gibrall, pointed out that Ross has often helped the school, sometimes under a veil of anonymity. While he was serving on the school’s Board of Trustees, for instance, Ross noticed the Cadets football uniforms weren’t all precisely the same shade of green. Ross fixed it, but typically, he wanted no credit.

"The new renovations, state-of-the-art locker room and weight room, are a direct result of Coach Ross’ generosity,” Gibrall added. “He tears up when he remembers where he came from. He’s a Highland Park guy who has gone far. He doesn’t forget it.”

In recognition of this strong bond, last May Benedictine named its Goochland County football field Robert J. “Bobby” Ross Stadium. Gibrall said that Ross was surprised and characteristically humble about the announcement, saying he didn’t deserve it.

Gibrall, who played his football at Benedictine in the early-sixties, chuckled. “No one deserves it more! His name was the only one that came up.”

“He’s the greatest human being I've known in my life,” said Johnny Siewers, who played on the Benedictine basketball team with Ross for two seasons. “He never did anything wrong.”

Siewers, who keeps regular office hours at his family’s business, Siewers Lumber, recalled what an outstanding athlete his friend was in high school. Ross was named to All-City teams in football (as quarterback), basketball (as point guard) and baseball (as shortstop), according to Siewers. “He was quiet, had a lot of natural ability, desire, and heart, but he was injury-prone because he played too hard.”

Ross remains close with Siewers and several other men with whom he played sports as a boy. A group of them meets every July Fourth at Siewers’ place on the York River. And, when Ross coached the San Diego Chargers in Super Bowl XXIX, he invited six of his old Richmond pals, along with their wives, to the game.

In 1959 Ross married his high school sweetheart and graduated from VMI with a bachelor of arts degree. Following that one-season stint at Benedictine the same year, he left Richmond to serve his active-duty obligation as an officer in the U.S. Army’s Third Armored Cavalry Regiment. As it was during the Berlin Wall crisis, the six-month active-duty-option that might have been available was not, so coaching football had to wait.

Once his U.S. Army duty was done in 1962, Ross wrote every school system in Virginia asking for a job coaching high school football. He landed on his feet in Colonial Heights. And in 1965, his first assistant’s job at the collegiate level took him back to VMI. Ross’ other stops as an assistant coach at the college level were at The College of William & Mary, Rice University (in Houston, Texas), and the University of Maryland.

Ross’ first college head coaching job was at The Citadel, where he stayed for five seasons (1973-77). While he didn’t post a winning record (24-31-0) there, Ross took advantage of his first opportunity to be the boss by hiring an amazingly bright group of young assistants. Included on that list are no less than five current head coaches of note: Frank Beamer (Virginia Tech), Sylvester Crooms (Mississippi State), Ralph Friedgen (Maryland), Jimmye Laycock (William & Mary) and Cal McCombs (VMI).

“I had him [Ross] as a position-coach as a player,” said Laycock, referring to when he played football at William & Mary in the late-sixties. About his tenure as an assistant coach under Ross, Laycock added, “He gave me a tremendous break and a tremendous foundation, as far as how to be a coach. Bobby Ross is a great person to talk with, and emulate. I never hesitate to call him.”

Beamer recalled a particular day at The Citadel: “During one meeting, I remember going over how we were going to play a pass coverage. I was talking about it in general terms. Coach Ross said, ‘Let’s stop and when you come back this afternoon let’s be very specific. Exactly how many yards off hash are you going to be?’ From that time on, I learned you take care of all the details in coaching, and he does that very well.”

Ross left The Citadel in 1978 to spend four years as an assistant coach with the Kansas City Chiefs, then returned to college football to become head coach at Maryland. Ross subsequently led the Terrapins to three consecutive Atlantic Coast Conference championships (1983-85). In 1986 he took charge of Georgia Tech’s program. Four years later the Yellow Jackets were co-national champions.

Moving back to the NFL in 1992, Ross retooled the perennial also-ran San Diego Chargers, leading them to Super Bowl XXIX, the only NFL championship appearance in franchise history. In 1997 he left San Diego, rather than cave in to management’s wishes and fire four of his assistant coaches.

Ross injected, “I didn’t feel it was justified. It was in my contract to have say-so over hiring and firing. I've only fired one coach in my life.”

Three years of retirement in Lexington, Virginia, however, had Ross thinking about getting back into the game. Then his name surfaced as a possible candidate for the head coaching job at Duke. As treatment had his health problem under control his wife encouraged him to consider a comeback. When the West Point possibility opened up, her enthusiasm for that opportunity weighed on his decision.

On December, 9, 2003, USMA officials announced that Bobby Ross had accepted an offer to become Army’s 34th head football coach. He inked a pact that purportedly pays him over $600,000 per year, almost three times what former coach Berry is said to have earned. Interestingly, the money was put together by the Association of Graduates, an alumni group, which means that Ross is officially an independent contractor being paid by private donations.

To this new mission Ross takes with him a well-honed gift for leadership that apparently has always been there. Even in grade school, it’s said, he was the leader of the pack, a sentiment echoed by Johnny Siewers: “His success in coaching, everywhere he’s been, is based on his being able to take the best players and make leaders out of them.”

“Bobby Ross is a successful coach because he is very detailed,” said Beamer, “he’s very knowledgeable, and he cares a lot about his players and coaches.”

Laughing off a question about goals for Army this season, Ross deadpanned, “Our program lost by 20.76 points per game [last year], we’ve got to get so we lose better.” Then he added, “We’ve got to get some wins.”

“I'm so glad he’s back,” said Laycock. “He’s straightforward; we need people like him in coaching.”

Wearing a favorite shirt, one that pays tribute to the late Warren Rutledge’s 949 basketball wins at Benedictine, the ever-loyal Ross said with sincerity, “Warren was a great man to work for, and with.”

Ross had seventy-five freshmen turn out in perfect weather for the first official football practice on August 9 at Howze Field. Army may have been humiliated in its last game (Navy 34, Army 6), but a new enthusiasm for football appears to be taking root along the banks of the Hudson River - which can’t come as much of a surprise to his colleagues, Laycock and Beamer, or any of Ross’ old teammates at Benedictine.

-- 30 --

Tex-Wisc. Border; Soble's; Chiocca's Park Ave. Inn

Three Fan District Bars Remembered

Note: Versions of the three pieces below were first published by Richmond.com. Although they amounted to obituaries for restaurants, the three establishments covered were much more than mere dives. What did they have in common? Part fiefdom, part oasis, they were aspects of a culture which valued neighborhood saloons that is fading into the mists.

Texas-Wisconsin Border Café (Mar. 30, 1999)

In 1982 three adventurous friends trusted their instincts and put together the Texas-Wisconsin Border Café, a quirky Fan District watering hole known affectionately as “The Border.”Owners Jim Bradford (depicted above), Donna Van Winkle and Joe Seipel were rewarded with an immediate following. It evolved into an institution known widely for its wacky interior and its diverse crowd; a place where blue collars, white collars and no collars got along famously.

When word got out in early March the Border was being sold, old customers and ex-staffers began making pilgrimages to the place for one last drink, one last connection to a piece of their youth. Although it had been rumored the Border was for sale for some time, what isn’t these days?

When Bradford -- a tireless photo-realistic painter with a curmudgeon’s sense of humor -- died in the summer of 1997, well, the future of the restaurant became much more complicated. Of the three owners, Jim had surely been the one who spent the most time bellied up to the bar, overseeing operations.

After managing the restaurant in its salad days, Van Winkle had gone to law school, become an attorney, and moved to Fredericksburg. Fifty miles is a tough commute for a late-afternoon beer.

That left Seipel, chairman of VCU’s sculpture department, to hold down the happy hour fort in the section of the restaurant known as the Power Corner. Although Seipel’s talent for convivial conversation is considerable, he had taken on time-consuming responsibilities over the years; fatherhood not the least of them.

So, it was time to turn the page. On March 14, the last night of the original ownership’s watch, a bagpiper played “Amazing Grace” to close the Border down. After playing a while for the crowd on hand he marched out the door, bagpipes caterwauling passionately, and it was done.

The scene brought to mind filmmaker Luis Bunuel’s apt comment in his autobiography, My Last Sigh, about a good bar being like a chapel. No doubt, most who were there for the piper’s last mournful note took with them a strong sense of that sentiment.

Then new owners decided to honor a date the old owners had made with Burnt Taters for a March 26 CD release party. That meant keeping the business open under the old banner for a few more days and putting off the renovations. As it turned out, the delay set the stage for quite a finale.

What followed was an auction event on the actual last night of operation as the Texas-Wisconsin Border Café. At six o’clock Page Wilson and Reckless Abandon gave the makeshift stage in the front of the room over to the selling off of the bar’s wild and eclectic collection of wall decorations and art-like objects. They pulled down the framed pictures, the stuffed animal heads, the signs, and you name it. What went on was part wake, part fund-raiser, part souvenir-grab and all party.

The bidding at times resembled a feeding frenzy, as people climbed over one another to throw three figures at stuff, some of which wouldn't go for five bucks at a yard sale. The crowd cheered as each bid drove the price higher.

One rather attractive young woman gladly paid hundreds of dollars for a stuffed squirrel’s butt. A roar went up as she outbid her rivals and everyone ordered another round. The more absurd the prices got the more fun was being had. Since the money raised from the auction all went to the Bradford Scholarship Fund at VCU, more than $10,000, the harm couldn’t be found.

The Border, a happening unique in an age of conformity, will be missed. Don’t expect it to happen again.

* * *

Soble’s (Jan. 26, 2000)

Soble’s, home of “the world-famous bacon cheeseburger” for 22 years, is no more.

Paul Soble and his partner, Bruce Behrman, have sold the well-known Fan District restaurant to a group that plans to open a new restaurant under the name, “The Devil’s Kitchen.”

Soble’s, Part One, lasted ten years (1977-87) at 2526 Floyd Avenue in what had previously been the location of Cavedo’s, a traditional neighborhood drug store with a classic soda fountain. Part Two saw the restaurant lose its lease, pack up its patio, and move one block to the south - 2600 West Main Street.

Paul Soble enjoying the moment (July 4, 1985)

Soble’s had a feel to it that was reminiscent of traditional watering holes in large cities on the eastern seaboard. Its elegant back bar was cluttered with memorabilia that included hundreds of photos of regulars and popular culture souvenirs that documented a generation’s after-dark highlights and next-day hangovers.

The mirrors were covered with Elvis kitsch, dog-eared tickets from NRBQ concerts, High on the Hog backstage passes, postcards featuring shapely derrieres, and silly bumper stickers with slogans such as, “bad cop - no doughnut.”

Perhaps the peak of Soble’s popularity was in the mid-‘80s, when an every-other-Monday jam session evolved into a scene that had a touch of magic. It came to be known as the “Blue Monday Jam.”

As the summer of 1986 wore on, the crowds for the impromptu show began to fill the restaurant and overflow onto the patio and into Floyd Avenue. Jimmy Maddox, a vocalist who accompanied himself on piano, served as organizer and host for shows that included the best musicians in town on a given Monday.

Other clubs tried to copy the concept and attempted to set up nights for jam sessions. None of them were ever able to duplicate the scene that naturally formed in Soble’s.

Behrman confirmed that indeed he saw the Blue Monday Jam as a high water mark in popularity for the restaurant. But he laughed at the idea that the live music crowds of those Monday nights spent a lot of money.

Still, that rowdy scene was part of why Soble’s became a headquarters for a certain ilk. It now joins the Texas-Wisconsin Border Café and John & Norman’s as noteworthy Fan District restaurants to cash in their chips within the last year.

According to Vaughn Turner, a bartender for many years at the Border, the Devil’s Kitchen will serve a bacon cheeseburger of sorts. He also indicated that hot sauces, made on the premises, will be featured in the new operation. Turner is one of three partners involved in the venture.

While there to check out the changes underway, I looked for a bullet hole in the back bar that had been put there during a 1987 holdup, shortly after the move from Floyd to Main. One of the robbers fired a shot at Soble that he was purported to have dodged. I couldn’t find the hole; somebody must have fixed it. It’s hard to imagine Paul ever moving that fast again.

Perhaps it was time to make a change. As far as why he and Soble sold the business, Behrman said, “We both got tired of it and wanted to do some other things. Business was okay.”

Soble’s is on a short list of restaurants that gets, or deserves, an obituary.

*

Note: Paul Soble died on July 27, 2000. Both Price’s Market and the Fan Market, compact Fan District grocery stores that also were throwbacks, closed a few months after Soble’s restaurant ceased operation. The Devil’s Kitchen didn’t last out the year.

* * *

Chiocca’s Park Avenue Inn (Dec. 2, 2004)

On Monday, Frank Chiocca stood tending bar for his last shift. As he answered a question from a customer the phone rang; another old friend was calling to pay his respects. With the sun setting on what was a crisp autumn day Chiocca was reflective, yet upbeat, in the midst of his familiar five o'clock crowd for the last time.

Chiocca's Park Avenue Inn opened for business on June 18, 1964. It closed for good on November 29, 2004.

According to Chiocca a 1964 bottle of Richbrau, which was then brewed and bottled about a half-mile from his Fan District location, cost a quarter. He chuckled, "Forty years! I didn't have two nickels to rub together when I got here."

To say Frank Chiocca, 79, has the food-and-drink biz in his blood is a bit of an understatement. After returning to Richmond from service in the Italian army during World War I, his father, Pietro Chiocca -- whose two older brothers were already running a restaurant at 812 W. Broad Street called Jimmy's -- became a partner in Silvio Funai's restaurant. The building at 327 E. Franklin St., which no longer exists, had previously been a public library. In 1937 "Pete" Chiocca bought Funai out and renamed the place Chiocca and Son.

Before they left to serve in the American armed forces during World War II, Pete's boys -- Andrew, Joe, Mario and Frank -- all worked in his restaurant, which was across the street from the Richmond Newspapers building.

In 1947 Joe opened his own eatery at 2915 W. Cary St. (in the building that now houses The Track); he called it Chiocca's. In 1952 brother Mario followed suit by opening his version of a Chiocca's at 425 Belmont Ave. His children, Tim and Carla, still operate that basement tavern today, in much the manner it has always been run.

In 1961 Pete Chiocca closed the original downtown Chiocca's. Using the typewriter with which he had created the daily menus for years, Frank then put together a few recollections of his father's place to help columnist Charles McDowell with a piece he wrote paying tribute to the passing of a favorite haunt. According to McDowell's account, Frank's history recalled, "... the prohibition days, the bawdy girls who would occasionally saunter in to catch the eye of a medical student, a lawyer, an artist, musician, and perhaps even a newspaper man. ...and the ever-present gas pilot light at face level near the tobacco case, for lighting one's cigar or cigarette."

By the way, Tim and Carla Chiocca's cousin, Frances "Cookie" Giannini, owns the popular Northside spot Dot's Back Inn that she named after her waitress aunt, Dot, who worked for decades at Jimmy's.

Chiocca's Park Avenue Inn was known for its time-capsule atmosphere and its made-to-order sandwiches; the signature sandwich was called "the Masterpiece." It featured an anchovy sauce based on Frank's mother's recipe. Watching his hands carefully constructing a sandwich and arranging the presentation on the plate was always worth studying; he was a polished craftsman.

In recent years his shrinking customer base was made up mostly of young families from the surrounding blocks who eschewed fast food, and graying beer aficionados who grew up in that same area. Now those loyal customers have lost an authentic connection to a sepia-toned time when the Fan District was dotted with Ma and Pa restaurants and small markets.

Moreover, the list of forgettable dives and pretentious hash houses that have come and gone in the Fan and environs during Frank Chiocca's steady 40-year-run is too long for this limited space.

Now his irregular-shaped little building -- slapped onto the Park Avenue side of a 1908 townhouse that faces Meadow St. -- has been bought by a group of partners headed up by Johnny Giavos, a man who also grew up in the business. Giavos also holds an interest in a short list of other nearby pubs/cafes. Obviously, a new restaurant is in the works.

“All things come to an end,” Chiocca shrugged. “Forty years; it’s been a good run.”

-- 30 --
Illustration and photos by F.T. Rea

The Brileys

by F. T. Rea
Now decades into the copycat Postmodern Era, somewhere along the way the news of the day became just another product to be processed and squeezed into a profit-making shape. Before O. J. Simpson’s whacky trial, and talkative Monika Lewinsky's mischief, and dead Laci and smarmy Scott, and so forth, we weren't used to the pounding of the 24-hour news cycle. Now it's routine.

Richmonders experienced an abrupt change in the standards by which news was gathered and presented 22 summers ago. Having terrorized the town with a series of grisly murders five years before, on May 31, 1984, brothers Linwood and James Briley led the largest death-row jailbreak in U.S. history.

In all six condemned men flew the coop by overpowering prison guards, donning the guards’ uniforms, creating a bogus bomb-scare and bamboozling their way out of Virginia’s supposedly escape-proof Mecklenburg Correctional Center.

While their four accomplices were rounded up quickly, the brothers Briley remained at large for 19 days. The FBI captured the duo at a picnic adjacent to the garage where they had found work in Philadelphia. Linwood was subsequently electrocuted in Richmond on Oct. 12, 1984; likewise, James on Apr. 18, 1985.

All the images in the series were based on what
were then well reported stories.

While the Brileys were on the run and for some time afterward the media coverage, both local and national, was unprecedented. During the manhunt the Brileys-mania led to stories about them being spotted simultaneously in various locations on the East Coast from North Carolina to Canada. When I noticed kids in the Carytown area were pretending to be the Brileys, and playing chasing games accordingly, that was just too much.

My sense of it then was the depraved were being transformed into celebrities so newspapers and television stations could sell lots of ads. Once they were on the lam, if it came to making a buck it didn’t seem to matter anymore what the Brileys had done to be on death row.

“OK,” I said to a Power Corner group in the Texas-Wisconsin Border Cafe on a mid-June evening, “if the Brileys can be made into heroes to sell tires and sofas on TV, how long will it be before they're on collectable cards, like baseball cards? (or words to that effect).” To illustrate my point I grabbed a couple of those Border logo imprinted cardboard coasters from the bar and drew quick examples on the backs, which got laughs.

Later at home, I sat down at the drawing table and designed the series of cards. To avoid race humor entirely I used a simple drawing style that assigned no race to the characters. The sense of humor was sardonic and droll. I elected to run off a hundred sets of eight cards each, which were put into small ziplock plastic bags, with a piece of bubble gum included for audacity's sake. I figured to sell them for $1.50 a set and see what would happen.

Traveling about the Fan District on my bicycle it took about three days to sell the first press-run out of my olive drab backpack. New cards were designed, more sets were printed, more plastic bags, more bubble gum. A half-dozen locations began selling “The Brileys” on a consignment basis.

Sales were boosted when the local press began doing stories on them. For about a week I was much-interviewed by local reporters. The Washington Post ran a feature on the phenomenon and orders to buy card sets began coming in the mail from Europe.

Reporters called me for easy quotes to fill articles on death penalty issues, as if I was an expert on the subject. That I was opposed to the death penalty seemed to strike them as odd. Moreover, finding myself in a position to goose a story that was lampooning the overkill presentation was delicious fun. I announced on the air that T-shirts commemorating the Brileys' 1984 Summer Tour were on the way soon.

Apart from my efforts, the hated Briley brothers’ chilling crime spree and subsequent escape inspired all sorts of lowbrow jokes and sick songs, and you-name-it, which did indeed fan the flames of racial hate in Virginia. Naively, I felt no connection to that scene until a stop at the silk screen printer’s plant suddenly cast a new light on the fly-by-night project that summer's effort was. Walking from the offices to the loading dock meant passing through a warehouse full of boxes, stacked to the ceiling. Suddenly, I was surrounded: Four young men closed in and cornered me.

Some of them, if not all, had box cutters in their hands; all of them were definitely black. At that moment I felt whiter than Ross Mackenzie. No direct threats were made, but the mood was extremely tense when their spokesman asked if I was the man behind the cards and T-shirts.

As it was not the first time I’d been subjected to questions about the cards, I quickly asked if they had seen the cards, or had only heard about them. As I suspected they hadn’t seen them. Luckily, I had a pack in my shirt pocket, which I took out and handed to the group’s leader. As he studied them, one by one, his cohorts looked over his shoulder. I explained what my original motivation had been in creating the cartoons. They didn’t laugh but the spell was soon broken. I let them keep the cards.

Later I was in a drug store, restocking one of my dealers for the cards, when a white lady with blue hair approached me. She worked there and had seen the cards, which she found unfunny. She told me her husband was on the crew that had cleaned up the crime scenes after some of the Briley’s murders. Then she said if I was going to profit from all this I should be man enough to hear her out. I did. She gave me specific details. It was mostly stuff I had known, or suspected, but the way she told it was brutal.

At this point the success of my performance art project seemed to be going sour. I got a call from a reporter asking me what I had to say about Linwood Briley having made some disparaging remark about my cards. I got peeved and asked the scribe what the hell anybody ought to care about what such a man has to say?

Like it or not, I had become a part of what I had been mocking in the first place. Shortly afterward the cards and T-shirts were withdrawn from the market. Unfortunately, now, without the context of the 1984 news stories, the humor aspect of the cards is somewhat arcane.

Three years later I was in the Bamboo Cafe, standing at the bar at Happy Hour, having a beer and talking with friends about sports (probably). A middle-aged man I didn’t know stepped my way to ask furtively if I was the guy who “drew those Briley cards.”

After I said “yes,” and introduced myself, he asked me a few questions about the cards. Then he spoke in a hushed tone, saying something like, “What about those missing cards?”

“Missing cards?” I returned. “Are you asking why I skipped some numbers?

He nodded and reached in his pocket to pull out a full set of The Brileys, still in its original plastic bag.

Wanting to end the conversation quickly -- that he had the cards with him was too strange for me -- I put it plainly: “OK. First, I wanted to imply there was a vast series out there, without having to create it. Then, I wanted the viewer to maybe imagine for himself what the other cards might be.”

The collector put his cards back in his pocket. He stepped away, plainly disappointed with my rather easy answer, which gave him no dripping red meat to savor. It seemed that night the mild truth was of little use to my public, such as it was.

-- 30 --

In Search of Brer Rabbit

Below the reader will see a feature article I wrote three years ago, which was published by a Richmond magazine called FiftyPlus. It is about a writer named Daryl Cumber Dance. She’s a charming woman who is well known in some circles. But I suspect many readers will be learning about her for the first time when they read the piece. Dance is a University of Richmond English professor who has written extensively about African American folklore. Enjoy.

In Search of Brer Rabbit
By F.T. REA

Rabbit in de briar patch
Squirrel in de tree,
Wish I could go huntin’,
But I ain’t free.

Unbeknownst to the slave traders transporting their kidnapped human cargo from Africa to the New World, there was a stowaway onboard. Folklore scholars tell us that Brer Rabbit made his way across the Atlantic Ocean, hidden in the minds of shackled men and women on their way to a life that might as well have been on another planet.

Impish Brer Rabbit is just one of the fascinating characters from African American folklore who appeal to University of Richmond English professor Daryl Cumber Dance.

In Dance’s newest book, From My People: 400 Years of African American Folklore, she has fashioned an eclectic collection of African American folklore, music lyrics, art, toasts, proverbs, riddles, and superstitions.

“What I’m doing is capturing a certain tradition, in print,” she said of her 736-page anthology, published last year by W. W. Norton.

That “certain tradition” was a subculture that in its time relied entirely on the spoken word of storytellers, or griots (pronounced gree-oh). After all, it was illegal during extended parts of America’s slavery era to even teach Negroes how to read and write.

In From My People, next to her collection of yarns featuring mythical characters, such as Brer Rabbit, the Signifying Monkey, and Stagolee, Dance includes thought-provoking samples of the words of well-known black figures, including Ralph Ellison, Jelly Roll Morton, Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Then, too, there’s a chapter on Soul Food, with plenty of useful recipes.

While Brer Rabbit made it to America’s shores in the memories of slaves, Dance pointed out, it was Joel Chandler Harris (1848-1908), author of the Uncle Remus stories, who brought Brer Rabbit to the reading public.

Slaves told him those stories, featuring animals blessed or cursed with human-like traits, when he was a boy. Uncle Remus, the kindly yarn-spinner, was Harris’s invention. Significantly, the stories were written in a style he asserted was the dialect spoken by slaves in his youth. Harris also underlined the universal nature of stories concerning subjugated underdogs and their struggle for survival with dignity intact.

Dance happily subscribes to the basic idea expressed by mythology guru Joseph Campbell (1904-1987), when he held forth, in his authoritative writings on storytelling in ancient civilizations, that fables about heroes and their transforming quests are more similar than not.

Now, well after the days of Harris’ Uncle Remus, the study of folklore has become quite important to historians and anthropologists. Then, too, folklore can also be seen as the forerunner to today’s popular culture of magazines, movies, popular music and broadcasting.

The word “toast” is among the interesting terms Dance examines in From My People. As she explains, toasts were artful rants presented from the point of view of a powerful black man. They began to be a popular form of expression/entertainment in urban neighborhoods around the turn of the century. They were always bawdy.

“A clean version of a toast is not a toast,” said Dance, eyebrows raised.

She struggled with how to include such material in From My People. Nonetheless, Chapter Nine contains some traditional toasts, including Stagolee.

If that title has a familiar ring to it, that’s because there is a raft of songs out there about a gun-toting Stagolee, or Stagger Lee. New Orleans singer/songwriter Professor Longhair did his take on it, “Stag O Lee,” in 1974. There was also Lloyd Price’s big hit, “Stagger Lee,” in 1959. Still, Mississippi John Hurt’s version of the song, “Stack O'Lee Blues,” in 1928, is considered the definitive version.

Deciding the book needed some examples of traditional toasts in it, while also wanting to make it accessible to young readers, Dance compromised her long-held belief in absolute authenticity, to do with wording. She crafted a few substitute terms, here and there, hoping to retain the original toast’s meaning and verve.

As a toast, Stagolee probably originated in turn-of-the-century Memphis. It may well have been based on a real murder. Eventually the songs came, with all the variations on the same theme. Today, it’s easy to imagine the bloody saga of Stagolee and Billy presented with a hip hop treatment.

“Rap is an outgrowth of the toast,” said Dance. “Things find ways of going on.”

That apt observation sheds light on such acts as the legendary Last Poets. Their first performances in New York City in 1968, of what many popular culture aficionados see now as seminal rap music, could also be seen as bringing the long-established tradition of the toast forth for a new generation.

Born in Richmond in 1938, Daryl Cumber grew up on land in nearby Charles City County that her free black ancestors of the Brown family owned in the time of legalized slavery in Virginia. Of course, if any of those pre-Civil War ancestors traveled, they were well advised to carry their precious free papers with them, to be able to prove their status. The regional tradition that kept most folks close to home had its roots in reason.

Dance’s father was a jointer at the shipyard in Newport News. He also built and owned a beer garden called the Shanty Inn. It was a no-frills place with a jukebox where the black men and women who lived in the county gathered to wet their whistles and socialize. At first he kept his day job, but eventually he began working full-time at his own business, once it began to thrive.

The Shanty Inn wasn’t a wild roadhouse or whiskey-serving speakeasy, Dance said. Still, young Daryl wasn’t permitted to go inside during business hours. She was nine years old when her father died of a heart attack, at the age of 36.

As a girl, Dance expected to become a teacher. “I always wrote,” she said with a laugh and a sigh. “I had the nerve to send a play to a radio show [called] ‘Dr. Christian’.”

Although she may have thought about becoming a lawyer, as her grandfather was, in her bucolic 1950s world women didn’t study law.

“In my family, women taught,” said Dance, who attended Ruthville High School, which had been named for a great-great aunt, Ruth Brown. Daryl Cumber went on to Virginia State College, where she majored in English, and in 1956 she began her teaching career at Armstrong High School in Richmond.

Two years later she married Warren C. Dance, a teacher who is now retired from Richmond Public Schools; he also served on the adjunct faculties of J. Sargeant Reynolds Community College and Virginia Union University. The union of life-long teachers has produced three children (two sons and a daughter), who, in turn, have produced two grandchildren, so far.

Speaking of family, From My People is dedicated to “my son Allen Cumber Dance, a bright, handsome, generous, and supportive individual who would make any mother proud, but an inveterate Trickster, who almost always makes me worry a little but laugh a lot.”

Dance returned to Virginia State to get an M.A., which was followed by a doctorate in English from the University of Virginia. She has received a couple of Ford Foundation Fellowships, three Southern Fellowships Fund grants, two National Endowment for the Humanities grants, a Fulbright research grant, a grant from the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences at Stanford University, and other honors too numerous to list in this space.

Ten years ago, after teaching at Virginia State University, the University of California at Santa Barbara, and Virginia Commonwealth University, she became a member of the English Department faculty at the University of Richmond.

Dance now has eight books to her credit. Her first, Shuckin' and Jivin': Folklore from Contemporary Black Americans (1978), established her as an emerging figure in the folklore field. Subsequent books have dealt with a variety of subjects, including Caribbean folkore and African American women’s humor.

Long Gone: The Mecklenburg Six and the Theme of Escape in Black Folklore, published in 1987, buffed her reputation not only as a dauntless researcher, but also as a scholar who was willing to weigh in on controversial matters and deal with them evenhandedly.

With an unflinching directness, Dance sought to demonstrate how the audacious 1984 escape from a maximum-security prison’s death row by the two infamous Briley brothers (and four accomplices) fell into a well-established template of tales about the authorities searching for black men on the lam.

The crimes of Linwood and James Briley (both were eventually executed) were not the book’s issue. Their much-storied last gasp of freedom was. The mainstream media’s high-profile accounts of the escape and subsequent sightings of the escapees - many of which were more hysterical than they were accurate - stoked the myth-making machine, spawning songs, stories, and all sorts of curious Briley brothers’ memorabilia. However, their crimes, carried out in Richmond, were so gruesome that some in the area couldn’t countenance the notion that such wretched men should be written about in any way, other than to condemn them.

Dance was surprised at how many people, officials and private citizens alike, attempted to frustrate her project. Nonetheless, the scholar pressed on. In the book she mentions that a good number of people also went out of their way to help her overcome contrived obstacles.

Tall and graceful in manner, Daryl Cumber Dance brings a rare combination of tools to her work. Her curiosity and integrity don’t stumble over one another. She intuitively blends her researcher’s need to seek the authentic, with her chosen role of editor/translator of an arcane language from another age. In the doing, Dance uses those colorful expressions to paint an American history with what amounts to an impressionistic style.

Yet, her very Southern-seeming modesty makes her laugh softly and shrug off the suggestion that she should be called a “historian,” a “folklorist,” or even, a “writer.”

“I haven’t written novels,” said the English professor in her Ryland Hall office.

What about the seeming contradiction of an expert on the folk culture established by generations of slaves, and their descendants, on tweedy Richmond’s West End campus?

“Richmond is beginning to be a different school than what people think,” replied Dance.

Throughout her enlightening examination of an American history that has been largely ignored by traditional historians, Dance uses the words Negro, Colored, Black, and African-American with equal ease. She explains that she chooses the term that was appropriate in the era to which she is referring.

In fact, Dance seems completely at ease with all sorts of words that ruffle feathers. And, she seems just as at ease in her own mahogany-colored skin. That has to be part of her success as a researcher. It’s easy to imagine that strangers would be disarmed by her gentle curiosity and trust her with their stories.

While Brer Rabbit was shanghaied, once he returned to land he was far too slippery to be held down for long. He freely hopped from one generation to the next. Trials and tribulations came and went, but Brer’s dignity was crushproof.

“The story of our history, as African Americans,” said Daryl Cumber Dance, “is just beginning to be told.”

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