The Strange Case of Gus the Cat

Note: In an effort to be funny in an off-beat way, I wrote this piece in 2000. As it happened, the people quoted were told the scenario and then given the freedom to write their own lines, in character. 

It was a lot of fun brainstorming and assembling piece. It was first published by Richmond.com. My thanks still goes out to the editor, Richard Foster, who had the nerve to run this difficult-to-categorize story. 

*

Though cynical people like to say, “All cats are gray in the dark,” the difference between this and that counts with me. Thus, if for no other purpose than to satisfy my own curiosity, I set out to find the truth about Gus, the gray and white cat that had long presided over lower Carytown from his plush basket in a bookstore display window facing the street.

This photo of Gus was shot by

Stacy Warner for Richmond.com.

The mystery began in the course of a casual conversation about re-makes of old movies. Film aficionado Ted Salins, a regular among the society of conversationalists who gather at the tables on the sidewalk in front of Coffee & Co., tossed out that the cat living next door in Carytown Books is not the “original” Gus.

Since I’ve known Salins, a writer/filmmaker/house-painter, for a long time, I suspected his charge was a setup for a weak joke. To give him room to operate I asked, “So, this Gus is an impostor?”

“Just like Lassie, several cats have played the role of Gus over the years,” Salins said matter-of-factly.

Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me that Gus, someone else’s cat, had slowly become important to me over the years. In the past I’ve been told that he’s over 15, maybe pushing 20. Who can say what that is in cat years? He still has a few teeth left.

“You see, in ‘91, I had lost my beloved Skinkywinkydinky in a separation,” Salins continued, as if he was revealing a dark conspiracy. “When I first saw Gus, I took to him, because he reminded me of Skinky. That Gus wouldn't let you touch him. But, this Gus…”

“Ted, this is absolutely the most off-the-wall nonsense you’ve come up with yet,” I accused.

“The place has changed hands a few times since then,” Salins smugly offered. “The problem is each owner falls in love with the cat and keeps it. But since Gus has become an institution in Carytown, each set of new owners has to find another cat that looks like Gus. The switch is made at night in order to preserve the secret. I’ve seen it.”

Before I could say “horsefeathers,” another member of the Carytown intelligentsia, who had just walked up, spoke: “Salins, as usual you’re all wet,” said artist Jay Bohannan. “That is not only the same cat, but Gus is, let’s see, yes, he’s nearly 70. That particular cat is probably the oldest cat this side of the island of Lamu.”

I laughed at Bohannan’s crack and excused myself from the table to let them hash it out. The two of them have been arguing good-naturedly since their VCU art school days in the early ‘70s.

Walking toward my car, Ted’s suggestion of a fraud having been perpetrated on the public bothered me. I felt certain that if somebody had actually installed a faux Gus in the bookstore it would have been all over the street the next day. As I tried to imagine people spiriting nearly identical cats in and out of the back door, in the dead of night, the matter wouldn’t rest.

So I turned around and went into Carytown Books. The shop’s manager, Kelly Justice, who has worked there for six years under three editions of ownership, scoffed at Salins’ charge.

“Anyone who knows Ted, knows he’s a nitwit,” said Ms. Justice with a wry smile. “More likely than not, this is an attempt to raise funds for another one of his documentaries.”

When I told her about Bohannan’s equally outrageous suggestion that Gus was almost a septuagenarian, Justice laughed out loud. “Perhaps Jay and Ted are both trying to hitch their wagons to Gus’ star,” she suggested playfully.

Back outside, Salins and Bohannan were both gone. So I walked east on the block to Bygones, the collectable clothing and memorabilia store known for its artful window displays. Since Maynee Cayton, the shop’s proprietor, is an unofficial historian for the neighborhood, I decided to see what she knew about Gus.

Cayton, who has been at that location for 16 years, said she had some pictures of the block from the ’30s and ‘40s, but she didn’t think she had any shots of a bookstore cat. However, she did remember that when she was a child she saw a gray and white cat in the window of what was then the Beacon Bookstore.

“It was in the late ’60s, I think it was 1967,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And I’d say it was a young cat. Either way, I can’t believe the feline impersonator story, so maybe it was Gus.”

The next day, Bohannan called on the phone to tell me he had something I needed to see right away. He was mysterious about it and wouldn’t explain what he was talking about, except to say that it was proof of his claim about Gus the Cat.

Unable to let it go, I told him I’d stop by his place to see what proof he had.

Bohannan’s apartment, located between Carytown and the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, was an escape from the modern world altogether. It’s furnished in a pleasant mix of practical artifacts and curiosities from yesteryear. The heavy black telephone on his desk was almost as old as Jay. Next to the desk was a turn-of-the-century gramophone. Bohannan, himself, dressed like a character who just stepped out of a Depression-era RKO film, reached into a dog-eared manila folder and pulled out a photograph. When I asked him where he had gotten the picture, purportedly from about 1930, he shrugged.

In such a setting, his evidence of Gus’ longevity took on an eerie authenticity. Sitting in one of Bohannan’s ancient oak chairs, surrounded by his own paintings of scenes from Virginia’s past, I thought I could see the cat he claimed was depicted in the storefront’s window. Why, it even looked like Gus.

Jay told me I could keep the photo, it was just a Xerox copy. What a scoop!

Later, when I looked at the grainy picture at home, I could hardly even see a cat. The next day, back in Carytown, I spoke with several people who hang out or work in the neighborhood. A few actually thought Bohannan’s bizarre contention could be true. Others agreed with Salins.

One man, who refused to be quoted with attribution, said he was sure the original Gus was an orange cat. A woman looked up from her crossword puzzle to note that Bohannan's evidence was at least as good as what she'd seen on the Loch Ness Monster.

Then the whole group of chatty know-it-alls went off on the general topic of conspiracy theories and hoaxes. At the next table a woman in a straw hat started sketching the sidewalk scene.

A few days later, I saw Ted Salins holding court in front of the coffee shop. I told him what Kelly had said about his claim and I showed him Jay’s so-called proof that Gus is ancient.

“The next thing you’re going to tell me is Shakespeare actually wrote all those plays," Ted said mockingly. "Look, it’s not the same cat. Live with it. This Gus is a ringer, maybe three years old.”

Turning around, I looked through the storefront’s glass at good old Gus in his usual spot. He looked comfortable with a new electric heater under the blanket in his basket. It dawned on me that there was a time when Gus used to avoid me, as well. Now he seems happy for me to pet him, briefly.

Pulled back into the spell of the mystery, I wondered, had Gus changed or had I? Gus stared back at me and blinked. Like one of his favorite authors, J. D. Salinger, Gus wasn’t talking.

Gus was smiling as only a cat can; a smile that suggests equal parts of wisdom-of-the-ages and dumb-as-a-bag-of-hammers. One obvious truth about Gus the Cat was that he had grown quite accustomed to having a public.

*

Note: On June 19, 2001 a cat alleged to have been the authentic Gus the Cat was found dead in Carytown Books; he was estimated by the bookstore's spokesperson to have been about 18 years old.

 

The Night the Earth Stood Still

Note: In December of 1999 the editor at Richmond.com, Richard Foster, asked me to do something with the much-in-the-news Y2K scare. He was happy to let me play with it. The gig had me filing the story a few days before New Year’s Day, to be published on January 3rd. This is what I came up with.

The Night the Earth Stood Still
F. T. Rea
Richmond.com
Monday, January 03, 2000

To Whom It May Concern: Greetings from the waning hours of 1999 in Richmond, Virginia, USA. And, in case it matters, on Earth.

Sitting at a table outside of Puddn'Heads Coffee House on an Indian Summer morning in November, I read a Y2K paranoia article with smug satisfaction as I consumed my daily dose of black coffee.

When I noticed a woman walk by with a mischievous Jack Russell Terrier at her side, I paused to think - who actually believed that anything significant was going to happen just because another page of the Christian calendar was about to be removed and tossed into the cosmic trash bin of time?

The woman looked a bit like Patricia Neal, which brought to mind "The Day the Earth Stood Still," the 1951 sci-fi classic that anticipated a modern society's panic from the sudden loss of all electricity.

Alas, that was only a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago, when I felt so unconcerned about Y2K bugs.

Now my nonchalance about this Y2K business has evolved into something else. Tonight, sitting at my keyboard on Dec. 16, I've started to get spooked by contemplating what's actually going to go down when zillions of pulsing gizmos sense that we have crossed the border between 1999 and 2000.

While I am anything but knowledgeable about matters pertaining to computers and the Internet, the fact is I use them both all the time. Frankly, I don't like to think about a world without word processing and e-mail.

At this point, I don't even know whether my computer will be of any use to me once we cross the great divide. I've been told on some good authority, there is a chance my old 486 may just seize up.

Of course that's a practical fear. Being a writer, I'm naturally concerned about my livelihood.

What is this I'm reading? You ask.

It's days after Y2K. We all know by now that (pick one) a) the Earth has been reduced to a still-glowing fireball; or b) it was all a big bore and we'll never fall victim to mass-hysteria again.

Well, reader, you're one up on me. The real problem looming as I type these words is that I have no idea that modern civilization isn't going to melt down over this splendidly ironic glitch in the system. I'm still weeks behind you, still left to wonder if the lights really will go out at midnight, Jan. 1, 2000. Still left to wonder if it's possible that our whole deal could go down the drain.

So think of this piece as a quaint time capsule beamed into the future - January, 2000.

Despite my Y2K blues, however, I believe that this article will almost certainly appear online as scheduled. I fully expect that you are sitting in front of your monitor reading this on richmond.com.

Then the laugh will be on all the people who admitted they were preparing for all manner of catastrophe. And, I suppose to some extent that will mean me. Fine. I'll be laughing then too.

I hope.

Nonetheless as I sit here, sipping on a bitter Pale Ale, I have no trouble imagining that roving bands of thugs could be out the first night without electricity. Looters could come out of the woodwork. If our toilets won't flush, our phones don't work, and all forms of mass communication are kaput, people could wig out big time.

Then, anything from the familiar post-apocalyptic menu could happen. Yes, I admit it - I'm getting a little worried.

In fact, I'm not at all sure when, or even if, anyone is actually going to read this. It has already occurred to me that maybe the only real point to my writing these paragraphs is to keep my squirmy consciousness occupied.

For that matter, every time a wordsmith plies his trade there is some leap of faith involved: Yes, it will be published. And yes, someone will read it.

Fetching yet another perfectly chilled ale, it just struck me that, for all I know, the entire power grid has gone down hard by the time you're supposed to be reading this.

And you, my dear reader, you could be someone who has stumbled across this material decades into the future. You could be an archeologist studying the artifacts of what remains of civilization circa 1999.

Or, perhaps you are reading this less than a month into the new millennium.

You are huddled in a icy bunker. Your generator-powered PC's monitor is providing the only light for you to pry open the precious can of beans you found in a pile of rubble.

And, with good reason you are reading this little essay with one eye peeled on the only doorway. Your revolver, as always, is at your side. You still have three bullets left.

You could even be the last human being alive. On the other hand, maybe you are not human at all. You could be from ...

Maybe everything is still, frozen timelessly in place.

OK, calm down.

If that is the case, there still could be one last chance. I know it sounds silly, but try saying the following phrase aloud: "Klaatu Barada Nikto."*

How could it hurt?

"Klaatu Barada Nikto!"

From 1999, this is F. T. Rea, over and out ...

Note: *The key line from "The Day the Earth Stood Still" that commanded the all-powerful robot Gort to switch the world's machines back on.

Highlights: 48 Years of Promoting Live Music Events

John Henley's 2019 photo of a grizzled promoter on

Harrison St., with his trusty staple gun in hand. 

The last live music show I produced/promoted was staged at the Bijou's space in Downtown Richmond (304 E. Broad St.) on Feb. 11, 2017. The Big Guys performed and they did a fine job. It was a show to celebrate the 45th anniversary of the opening night party at the Biograph Theatre. Naturally, a few short films were also presented. 

That 2017 show also capped off my effort to help establish the Bijou Film Center. After nearly five years of my focusing on that endeavor, I came to see that I had done all I could for the Bijou. It was time for me to turn the page and leave the establishing of the Bijou to younger guys. Accordingly, upon thanking the party's attendees and the band, I announced my retirement. As I remember it, after expenses, that well-attended show brought in close to $1,000 net for the Bijou. 

That anniversary party book-ended my association with promoting live music events in my hometown, which began in 1969/70, when I worked for about six months as a bartender at the Bearded Brothers at 2053 W. Broad St. Although I didn't book the bands (the owner, Fred Awad managed that), I did create handbills and newspaper ads, etc. to promote shows at that venue. And, I also designed a logo for Natural Wildlife, the house band. Souvenirs of the promotional art from those days are long gone.

Why was I drawn to getting involved with the promotion and presentation of rock 'n' roll music? 

Well, in that time I was fascinated with show business and popular culture, in general. Then, too, maybe growing up in the home of my (maternal) grandparents left a mark on me. While they had steady day jobs, they were both also excellent musicians. She was a nurse/pianist; he was a blue collar architect/vocalist. As far as my own musicianship -- or lack of it -- is concerned, I don't remember ever considering playing in a band. Whatever time I might have spent on learning to play an instrument properly was devoted to playing sports. 

However, I have tortured a few chromatic harmonicas over the years, playing along with canned music. Only rarely did I ever play a harmonica in collaboration with musicians.   

Yet, between 1969 and 2017, I spent many an hour promoting live music shows. Some of the most fun times I've had, associated with live music promotions, were connected to the events Chuck Wrenn and I put together and promoted, acting  as Lit Fuse Productions. The first of those Lit Fuse shows was presented on my Floyd Avenue front porch in 1978. Chuck's band played (see handbill).

Note: When I was assembling a staff for the new Biograph Theatre, back in January of 1972, Chuck was the first person I hired. So our history of working together as a team, with a million laughs! began nearly 50 years ago. 

*

Following a couple of impromptu parties at the Biograph in the '70s, with bands playing in the lobby, it was in late-December of 1979 that Chuck Wrenn, Mike Garrett and I cooked up a scheme for a new year's party at the theater, after-hours, to bring in the '80s. Mike's band, Single Bullet Theory played. Chuck built the temporary stage in front of the cinema's larger screen. We promoted the event by word-of-mouth only. I think we charged one dollar admission (which was probably spent on beer). Only familiar faces were admitted. This was one of those Biograph parties when we covered the windows facing Grace Street entirely with newsprint. 

Lit Fuse staged new year's parties the next two years, as well. Bringing in 1981 was done at the Clubhouse in Shockoe Bottom. For 1982 it returned to the Biograph. Posters for both events are seen below.  

The other old flyers posted below represent a few of my other live-music-related souvenirs that managed to survive the decades of changes of my address over the years.

 

--  30 --

For What It's Worth

Fiction By F.T. Rea

 

Jan. 24, 1991: Bright sunlight danced through the thin coating of freezing rain that had painted the city the evening before. In the crisp air a slender middle-aged man, a freelance artist/writer, walked at a careful but purposeful pace on the tricky sidewalk. The ice-clad trees along the street were dazzling, as seen through Roscoe Swift's trusty Ray-Bans. The woolly winter jacket his girlfriend, Sally Stone, had given him for Christmas felt good.

Since the freelancer couldn’t concentrate on his reading of the morning’s Richmond Times-Dispatch, he left half a mug of black coffee and a dozing cat on his desk to walk to the post office. He hoped the overdue check from a magazine publisher was waiting in his post office box.

Anxiously, Swift opened the box with his key. It was empty. He shrugged. 

An empty box had its upside, too -- there were no cut-off or overdraft notices in it. With 20 bucks in his pocket, the freelancer hummed a favorite Fats Domino tune, “Ain’t That a Shame,” as he headed home.

Before the end of the workday Roscoe had to finish an 800-word OpEd piece and drop it all off on an editor’s desk in Scott's Addition. With a drum beat for war in the air, he wanted to focus on the inevitable unintended consequences of any war. Yet, with the clock ticking on his deadline he was still at a loss for an angle.

The country was still mired in an economic recession. With the national debt climbing an invasion of Iraq was looming. War seemed all but inevitable. Pondering what demons might be spawned by an all-out war in Iraq he detoured a couple of blocks, to pick up a Washington Post and a fresh cup of coffee.

Approaching the 7-Eleven store Roscoe noticed a lone panhandler standing off to the left of the front doors. The tall man was thin and frail. He wore a lightweight denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. Snot was frozen in his mustache. The whites of his heavy-lidded eyes were an unhealthy shade of pink.

When Roscoe had run the Fan City Cinema, in the '70s, he had determined his policy should be to never in any way encourage panhandlers to hang around on the sidewalk in the neighborhood surrounding the theater. The rigid policy had lingered well after the comfortable job had faded into the mists.

On this cold day it wasn’t easy for Roscoe to avert his eye from the poor soul’s trembling outstretched hand. Not hearing the desperate man’s hoarse plea for food money was impossible. When there are always so many lives to be saved in our midst, Roscoe wondered, why do we have to go to the Middle East to save lives?

Inside the busy store Roscoe poured himself a large coffee. Black. Fretting profusely, he snapped the cup’s lid in place. It was one of those times when the little Roscoe with horns was standing on one of his shoulders, while his opposite, the one with the halo, was on the other; both were offering counsel.

Roscoe's longtime "policy" caved in seconds later. Still, he decided to give the freeloader food, rather than hand over cash to perhaps finance a bottle of sweet wine. It might change my luck, he thought as he smiled.

Trying to max out the bang-for-the-buck aspect of his gesture, Roscoe settled on a king-sized hot dog, with plenty of free stuff on it -- mustard, chopped onions, relish, jalapeno peppers, chili and some gooey cheese-like product. Not wanting to push it too far, he passed on the ketchup and mayonnaise.

Outside the store, Roscoe found the starving panhandler had vanished. Roscoe looked up and down Cary Street but saw no sign of the poor soul.

So, the crestfallen philanthropist took the meal-on-a-bun with him as he walked, softly singing a Buffalo Springfield song, “For What It’s Worth.” With his strides matching the beat he kept to the sunny street, to avoid the sidewalk in the shade.

There’s somethin’ happening here,
What it is ain’t exactly clear.
There’s a man with a gun over there,
Tellin’ me I gotta beware.
I think it’s time we stop, children, what's that sound,
Everybody look, what's going down.

A line from that song’s last verse -- “paranoia strikes deep” -- suddenly snapped an idea for the OpEd into place, which launched an instant mini-mania. The freelancer picked up his pace and began whistling a jazzy version of “For What It’s Worth.”

Back in his office/studio, rather than waste money, he tore into the feast he had prepared for a beggar. It seemed the food scared, or perhaps offended, the cat, who fled. Between sloppy bites the freelancer wiped his hands off.

About an hour later the heartburn started. Eventually, it got brutal. Roscoe pressed on. He wrote about the way propaganda always works to sell war -- every war -- as glorious and essential to the everyday people, who risk their lives. That while the wealthy, who rarely take a genuine risk on anything, urge the patriots on and count their profits.

Thinking of the war in Vietnam that thinned his generation out, he wrote:

After the war the veterans were largely ignored, even scorned.

Roscoe lamented the popular culture having gone wrong, so there was no longer a place for anti-war protest songs. Feeling righteous, he asked:

Where are today’s non-conformists? Today's questioners of authority?

With time to spare, the freelancer finished the job and turned in his work at 4:20 p.m. He even managed to pick up the overdue check for $200 he was owed. An hour or so later his sour and noisy stomach began to calm down during his second beer at the Bamboo Cafe.

Sally showed up with a smile and joined the group gathered at the elbow of the marble bar. When Roscoe recounted the tale of breaking his rule and buying the stuffed frankfurter he got a laugh. He explained how the old Buffalo Springfield song gave him an idea for his OpEd piece.

Roscoe's small audience groaned on cue when he finished it off with, “Sometimes it's a thin line that separates heartburn from inspiration ... ah, for what it’s worth.”

* * *

  Art and words by F.T. Rea.

This story is part of a series of Roscoe Swift stories called "Detached."  

All rights reserved by the author.

Carlos the Crab-folder

Twenty years ago Carlos Runcie Tanaka, a Peruvian sculptor, was in Richmond’s Fan District for a few days. In case you don't know it, Tanaka was/is a star in the international art world. 

Let me tell you, after watching the sculptor fold and crease a piece of paper in a local bar, I’ve got two words of advice for him -- show business. This concept would combine the origami with Tanaka’s considerable talent for yarn-spinning. OK, maybe I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. 

Like so many tales, this one began with Happy Hour: The Baja Bean was a Fan District watering hole. It was located in the basement of what was originally a schoolhouse. The old building itself looks like a stone and brick fortress. It was a typical crowd of mid-week regulars -- there were about 20 decidedly adult faces situated around the three-sided, horseshoe-shaped bar. The group was approximately equal parts white collar, blue color and no collar.

When then-chairman of Virginia Commonwealth University’s sculpture department Joe Seipel came in the room, with Carlos Tanaka at his side, Joe was smiling more broadly than usual. Seipel, who enjoys telling a good story, also loves to present a cool visiting artist to his pals at Happy Hour (at least in those days he surely did). It’s a tradition left over from the Texas-Wisconsin Border Café (1982-99), the nearby much-missed eatery/saloon which Seipel, himself, once co-owned. Seipel (who went on to become the Dean of VCUarts; he has since retired) introduced Carlos Tanaka to those who hadn’t already met him. 

One of Tanaka’s grandfathers was British and the other was Japanese. Both men married Peruvian women. In his career Tanaka has done much traveling, owing to his acclaim as an artist. At an art confab somewhere in South America he had met and gotten to know Seipel, plus a couple of other members of the art faculty at VCU’s world renown fine arts school. Then they arranged for him to come to VCU as a visiting artist/scholar. That’s how a Peruvian artist ends up in The Bean at beer-thirty.

Note: Carlos Tanaka was among the hostages taken by the Tupac Amaru in that bizarre 1996 incident in Lima, Peru, at the Japanese ambassador’s home. Nonetheless, his horrific experience as the hostage of hell-bent terrorists for 50 days apparently had done little to diminish Tanaka's sense of humor.

Eventually, someone in the bar asked him about the crab-folding thing. Bingo! Someone else promptly supplied Carlos with a blank sheet of paper. 

For the next 20 minutes the crab-folder told stories, made observations, ad-libbed and entertained everyone on hand. Nothing else was happening in the room for that spell. The product of the process was an intricate paper crab made from an ordinary piece of white bond paper.

Looking at the crab was fun; it almost seemed cute ... for a crab. But watching the artist fold the paper, over and over -- each fold exactly where it had to be -- as he offered his lighthearted patter, like a professional entertainer, was a rare treat. To the delight of the person who had supplied the sheet of paper, the crab-folder gave it to them.

Of course, someone else had to have one, too. Then another. In that happy hour session Carlos folded four or five paper crabs. He never ran out of offbeat stories about drinking, playing practical jokes, making art, fools in high places, and so forth. 

Note: The upbeat Carlos Tanaka never mentioned the dark time he was a hostage. I found out about that later.

The next time I saw Carlos in The Bean, a couple of days later, he gave me a paper crab as a souvenir (as shown above). Soon afterward he went back to Peru. As he’d been away from his studio for months, traveling and lecturing, the artist had said he was glad to be going home. I haven’t seen him since, but we've kept in touch, via the Internet.

Occasionally, I have seen his name associated with a big art happening in South America, the USA or Europe. Anyway, whenever Carlos is ready to take a break from the sculpture gig, I still say a lucrative career in show biz as a crab-folding monologist awaits.

Well, I suspect I’ve spent too many of my personal allotment of hours in bars. So while it’s easy to say many of those hours were wasted, every now and then something genuinely unusual has happened, out of the blue, that makes me say -- “I’m glad I was there.” 

If nothing else, those memorable times provide fodder for a story to tell at a subsequent Happy Hour. Like our ancestors, we listen and we observe. Sometimes we learn. All so we can recount stories about what seemed impressive, or at least unusual. 

Note: To see a gallery of Carlos Tanaka's work click here.

-- 30 --

"Wild Card Rea Never Planned to Play with a Full Deck"

This article that appeared in the Richmond Times-Dispatch nearly 28 years ago. It's a funny piece in many ways. The talented writer was so charming that she got me telling a few stories I probably should have skipped. The poker-faced photo of me to the right ran with the article. The illustrations are from the cards in the story.

RT-D, Feb. 6, 1994:

"Wild Card Rea Never Planned to Play with a Full Deck"

by Sibella Connor

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.”

NH at VCU cancelled

From Chris Kowalczyk, VCU Assistant A.D.: VCU Men’s Basketball game with New Hampshire, scheduled for Tuesday, Dec. 21 at the Stuart C. Siegel Center, has been canceled due to COVID-19 protocols.

Fans with tickets for the New Hampshire game will receive communication directly from the VCU Ticket Office on potential ticket exchanges and other options.

 

VCU’s next scheduled contest is set for Thursday, Dec. 30, when the Rams are slated to open Atlantic 10 Conference play against George Mason at the Siegel Center. Tip-off is scheduled for 7 p.m. on MASN. 

To the Biograph, many memories, Love Aimee

Note: This piece about Biograph Theatre anniversaries was first published nearly 21 years ago by Richmond.com (Feb. 16, 2000). Time flies. The 50th anniversary of the Biograph Theatre's opening night Zoom party will be on February 11, 2022.  

*

Anniversaries can be knives that cut both ways. To reminisce festively a happy hour group of us may raise our glasses. Later on, the drinking at last call might be more about forgetting. 

Since I tend to dwell on the calendar more than I should, last Friday afternoon I fell into a somber mood. Then, shortly after 4 p.m., I received an e-mail from a friend who lives in D.C. Until then, I hadn't realized that I had been fretting all day over the notion that I was alone in remembering that it was the Biograph Theatre's 28th anniversary. Upon looking at the e-mail, I smiled.

On Feb.11, 1972, the Biograph Theatre at 814 W. Grace St. was set in motion by a gem of a party. The first feature presentation on its screen was a French war-mocking comedy, "King of Hearts" (1966). In the auditorium Genevieve Bujold was dazzling opposite the droll Alan Bates. In the lobby and spilling onto the sidewalk, the Fan District's version of "beautiful people" was well represented. 

The champagne flowed and the flashbulbs popped. As the new cinema house's first manager, at 24, this yarn's recounter was convinced he had landed the best job in the Fan District.

Repertory movie theaters such as the Biograph became popular in large cities and college towns in the late '60s and early '70s. The fashion of the era, driven by a film buff in-crowd, elevated stylish foreign movies, certain American classics, and selected underground films above their current-release mainstream Hollywood counterparts. A repertory cinema's regulars viewed most of the product coming out of Hollywood then as naïve or corrupt.

For me, the gig lasted nearly 12 years, including five long years of Rocky Horror midnight shows. Four years after my departure, about seven years after the arrival of cable TV in the Fan District, the Biograph's screens went dark in December of '87. Times had changed and the theater had sort of lost its way.

Nonetheless, in that little independent cinema's heyday, February 11th meant something to those familiar with the nightlife scene in the VCU area. The Biograph's second anniversary was the party that established the occasion of the theater's birthday as a date to mark on the calendar. That was the year of The Devil Prank. 

*

Following a circuit court judge's well-publicized banning of a skin flick, "The Devil in Miss Jones" (1973), we booked an old RKO light comedy with a similar title -- "The Devil and Miss Jones" (1941) for a one-day event.

A press release announced that the theater was throwing a party to celebrate the anniversary of its opening day, admission would be free, and the titles of the movies were listed. (A Disney nature short subject -- entitled "Beaver Valley" -- was added to flesh out the program.)

As planned, no one at the theater answered any questions from the public or the media about the nature of the shows. The people who didn't notice the difference in the two titles were left to assume what they would ... and they sure did.

On the day of the party the staff decorated the lobby with streamers and balloons, laid out the birthday cake, and tested the open keg of beer. Spurred on by news reports of the Biograph's supposed intention to defy a court order, hundreds were in line by lunch time.

By show time, 6:30 p.m., the line of humanity stretched almost completely around the block. Thousands of people were waiting to see a notorious X-rated movie without knowing a Jean Arthur/Bob Cummings comedy was going to be shown, instead.

The atmosphere was electric when I unlocked the entrance door. Only the first 500 in line could be admitted because that was the auditorium's seating capacity. Later on, contrary to what I had expected, the audience didn't seem to all get the joke at once. Instead, the realization came in waves.

Most of those who were admitted seemed to enjoy the night. The movies had to be funnier in that context than ever before, as long as you could laugh at yourself. To wash down the taste of the joke free beer was available.

Of course, there were a few people who were miffed, but so many more loved being in on such an unusual event that the grumbles hardly mattered.

The story of the stunt hit the wire services and it appeared in newspapers all over the country. NPR did a piece on it. Needless to say, the frothy publicity only added to the luster of what was truly a unique night.

In subsequent years, the occasion of the annual party served as a reunion for everyone who had ever worked or hung out at the theater. Sometimes special films were brought in for a screening, or a band would play after hours.

Another anniversary that was rather unusual was the 10th. In 1982, a Louis Malle film that had been shot in the Jefferson Hotel was in its initial release. We booked the picture to open on Feb. 11 and combined with VCU's Anderson Gallery to stage a party that served as a benefit for the art gallery.

"My Dinner with Andre" was a movie about two friends talking over dinner. The actual meal they ate in the movie was provided by a local caterer named Chris Gibbs. He also created restaurants such as Gatsby's, Fifth Avenue, and Winston Churchill's. Each day of the movie's shooting schedule, the flamboyant Gibbs would show up at the set with another batch of Cornish hens and wild rice for the actors to pick over as they spoke their lines.

For our party, Gibbs served the art movie/art gallery patrons the same dinner as the actors on the screen were having. It went over like gangbusters. The local media ate it up, which of course validated the notion that a good time was had by one and all.

Naturally, since then, the theater closed and the tradition has atrophied. There was a small party for the 20th anniversary even though the cinema's screens had long been dark.

*

Back to the e-mail that made my day - here's how it worked: A few weeks ago, Style Weekly ran an interview with singer/songwriter Aimee Mann, a Richmond native and former lead singer of the '80s New Wave band 'Til Tuesday. The article mentioned her recent success with the song "Save Me" from the movie "Magnolia." Among her fond memories of Richmond, she spoke of having enjoyed going to the Biograph as a teenager.

Well, Aimee looks familiar to me, but I don't really remember her from her Open High School days (in the late '70s). I sent the article to the friend I mentioned, Ernie Brooks, because I knew he was enthusiastic about "Magnolia."

Brooks, a regular at the Biograph in the '70s, subsequently attended Mann's recent performance at the Birchmere in Alexandria. During a break, he presented her with a Biograph T-shirt from his collection. Ernie said she was nearly overwhelmed by his gesture. However, in spite of what my experience tells me about such stories, I'm choosing to believe him. 

Anyway, she autographed a copy of her "Magnolia" CD for him. Ernie then e-mailed me a scan of it attached to an account of his conversation with Aimee. On the cover art she had written - "To the Biograph, many memories, Love Aimee."

Upon seeing her simple message, my frame of mind changed instantly. Instead of letting mid-February's inevitable dreariness continue to bum me out, it even occurred to me how lucky I was to have been in on the adventure the Biograph truly was.

Because of a quirky art-movie connection, facilitated by way of an old friend of the Biograph, a willowy blond from the past beamed me a pleasant mood swing: a virtual happy anniversary present.

Thanks, Aimee. And congratulations on your Best Original Song Oscar nomination for "Save Me." I'll be watching to see what you are wearing on Oscar presentation night.

Ain't life grand?

-- 30 --

The Aughts: A Decade of Storms and Hype

Doug Wilder celebrating his

2004 victory. My illustration.

The following piece, attempting to sum up the passing of a decade, was published by Richmond.com on Dec. 16, 2009. 

*

The Aughts: 

A Decade of Storms and Hype

by F.T. Rea

It was in 1999 that Richmond.com began its life on the Internet. On Dec. 31, 1999, Republican Jim Gilmore was governor of Virginia and Democrat Tim Kaine was Richmond’s mayor.

Throttle Magazine ended its 20 years of publishing with the passing of the century. Since then we have lived through a time during which technology has rocked the world of publishing. Online ‘zines, such as Richmond.com paved the new way, then came Richmond’s blogosphere and more recently newer forms of social media.

Today even the most stubborn of Luddites has a cell phone, even if they haven‘t joined the Facebook and Twitter crowd.

Back to the waning minutes of 1999, remember the Y2K scare that had civilization collapsing into chaos? When the new millennium arrived, it turned out the threat of millions of computers seizing up had been little more than hype. What had been mostly an Internet-driven prank opened a decade in which hyperbole would become ubiquitous.

In the decade soon to end the ordinary has routinely been called awesome. The everyday has been bragged about, on and on, as the biggest, or most ever! Or, it’s the all-time worst!! An avalanche of exclamation marks has passed for style in the aughts.

And, speaking of style, although much about Richmond has changed in the last 10 years, some things, not so much -- two members of City Council resigned on their way to the pokey. They were Sa’ad El-Amin in 2003 and Gwendolyn Hedgepeth in 2004. In the previous decade, two council members also went from a seat on council to jail -- Chuck Richardson in 1995 and Leonidas Young in 1999.

However, much in the way of politics has changed in Richmond since 1999.

In 2003 the voters of the City of Richmond decided they wanted their mayor to be elected directly and be the person to manage the city’s government. That, instead of City Council selecting one of their own to be a ceremonial mayor and hiring a city manager to call the shots.

In 2004 former Gov. Doug Wilder was elected as Richmond’s first "strong mayor" since 1948. Wilder had campaigned as a problem-solver. He pointed at controversies whirling around the Virginia Performing Arts Foundation’s problems to do with building CenterStage and said he could fix what was wrong. Likewise, he said he could bring common sense to the controversy over the location for a new baseball stadium. He pointed at waste in municipal spending and said it would end.

Perhaps Wilder’s rhetoric raised expectations too high. CenterStage was scaled down but its critics weren’t silenced. The Richmond Braves left town. As he bumbled and blustered his way through his last two years in office, stories of Wilder -- himself -- playing fast and loose with tax money began to overshadow whatever achievements he may have initially made toward sound fiscal management.

On Fri., Sept. 21, 2007, Mayor Doug Wilder locked down City Hall and tried to evict public schools officials. A judge abruptly halted what became known as the Friday Night Fiasco: eviction kaput. Wilder’s influence has been in a free-fall since that night.

The aughts were stormier than some decades: In 2003 Hurricane Isabel blew through town and knocked down thousands of old trees. Electric power was out for over a week in parts of town. In 2004 Gaston flooded Shockoe Bottom from inside the floodwall. Then, in 2006, Ernesto’s drenching rain and a broken pipe flooded Battery Park.

In 2005 the first of three National Folk Festivals was held along the banks of the James River. Local promoters have continued the tradition the last two years.

2006 began with the news that Bryan and Kathryn Harvey and their two daughters had been murdered in their Woodland Heights home on New Year’s Day. Bryan had been a celebrated musician/songwriter; Kathy had created the World of Mirth in Carytown. Six days after the horrifying tragedy a memorial ceremony for the Harvey family packed the Byrd Theatre.

In October of 2006 the last High on the Hog, No. 30, was held in Libby Hill Park. The last band to play was the Memphis Rockabilly Band. Fittingly, they played during a driving rainstorm.

After the 2008 season ended the Richmond Braves packed up and moved to the suburbs of Atlanta. The same summer the Carytown Monkey had its 15 minutes of fame.

2009 began with people wondering which death-spiraling menace would finish them off first, the sinking economy or the swine flu. In spite of those fears the first new movie theater within Richmond’s city limits in 37 years was completed, as Movieland’s 17-screen complex opened its doors. In June the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts main galleries closed for renovation and expansion. It will reopen in May of 2010.

After all the twists and turns in its story, with much ballyhoo, CenterStage opened in September. After a year without professional baseball, the Richmond Flying Squirrels will play their home games next year at The Diamond.

With 2009 came Mayor Dwight Jones. Now he has a year on the job under his belt. His time in office has been so quiet, in comparison to his predecessor, that some Richmonders may wonder what he does with his time.

The decade will end with Republican Bob McDonnell poised to move into the Governor’s Mansion in the recently renovated Capitol Square, to follow the two Democrats who followed Gilmore. And, so it goes …

– 30 –