Our house has an A-frame roof and matching picture windows in the front and the rear. Ever since we had the windows washed, it seems that the occasional bird will look through our front window, see the redwood trees waving bright and clear through the back window, and make the tragic assumption that they've found a breezeway through which to fly.
RIP, tiny wren that scared the bejesus out of me when you BONNNNNG'ed into our window last evening. Every time I glance at the goo angel you left on the glass, I shall heave a melancholy sigh.
I just had that shit cleaned, you know?
The first assignment from the creative writing class I'm taking at Stanford, "Experiments in Writing and Revision", is to "seek out an unusual place and write a description using as much sensory detail as possible".
Finding a truly unusual place seemed like it'd be an easy task. The more I considered it, though, the less I could identify any place that would be both unusual enough to provide lots of "sensory details" to describe, yet also lend itself to my hanging out there long enough to take in the details I needed to convey.
In the end, deadline looming, I decided on a Mexican restaurant near our house. Housed in what seems to be a small former warehouse that was probably used for processing harvested fruit from one of the orchards that used to dominate this part of the Bay, it is one of the more unique places we've visited since moving here - although the more I (over)think about it, the more trite a subject it seems. As Eric so astutely commented, "What it needs is someone at the bar lighting every match in an oversized pack and letting each one burn down to his big fingers." Yeah.
Anyway, whatever, here's what I wrote. Bearing in mind that this was an exercise in description, not plot or character... I tried not only to use as much "sensory detail" as I could, but also to imply rather than state certain details, such as the fact it's a restaurant, what time of day it is, and the role of the lady at the bar. Meta meta meta! I'll shut up now.
***
Three reinterpretations of Frida Kahlo self-portraits dominated the wall over the arch-framed bar in Cabrito's. The whimsical composition of the portraits varied - in one, the artist wore a hat resembling a basket woven of pink snakes, in another a parrot rested on her shoulder, and in the last she clutched an armful of calla lilies - but her stern expression was the same in all. Placing an order under her surveillance seemed something to be approached with careful consideration, as if the wrong choice of appetizer might provoke some Montezuma-style retribution from her irascible spirit.
The Fridas' gimlet-eyed stares aside, however, the vibrancy of the portraits complemented and informed the overall d�cor of Cabrito's. The flowers in Frida #3 were replicated everywhere. Fresh lilies gleamed in wide-mouthed ceramic vases, molded plaster lilies climbed up support beams like sugar ants, and painted lilies bloomed in a garden of frames. The walls of the former fruit-packing warehouse were startlingly vivid � turquoise, orange, violet, green. The dining table chairs were semi-circular, woven with wooden switches and upholstered in rough, rust-colored pigskins. The sides of the chairs were so high that only the tallest guests could use them for armrests without feeling awkward, elbows half-elevated like a startled hen, and the seat just narrow enough to make everyone try anyway. On the tables were paper placemats offering lessons in rudimentary Spanish. Bway-nos DEE-ahs! Kee-see-AIR-ah. En-chee-LA-da. GRAH-see-as.
At one end of the room was an elevated, polished oak floor, which featured live flamenco or mariachi bands every Friday evening, and karaoke every Wednesday and Saturday. Overhead were enlargements of old black-and-white photos featuring former luminaries of the scene, musicians and dancers, most of them men wearing traditional embroidered shirts and caballero hats. One slouching, pencil-mustached suavecito, however, sported a creamy 1940's zoot suit � wide-brimmed hat, oversized jacket with fat lapels and padded shoulders, skinny belt and wingtip shoes. His hands were jammed into his pockets and one foot jutted out toward the camera.
Latin music drifted out into the dining area from the kitchen along with the tang of sauteeing onions and chiles, sizzling smoky carnitas, and the sweet aroma of fresh corn tortillas. One of the line cooks was singing along to the radio, a ballad which sounded like a brassy Tejano version of �Killing Me Softly�. He was pouring his heart into the song, belting out the long, soulful tones of the chorus as if he were standing not over a sweltering cooktop, but rather below his lover's window, trying to convince her to throw him a rope.
At the end of the bar, the bartender was leaning against the sink chatting with the occupant of the farthest stool, a buxom woman with toffee skin and a bottle-blond hairdo that had apparently survived the past thirty years without any major overhauls. She nodded and smiled at the bartender's gossipy tone while her manicured nails tick-ticked on the pads of a 10-key sitting next to a small stack of papers and a half-finished margarita (�Only hand-squeezed lime juice in our Margarita's always!� read the sign painted across the bar window). She ripped a printout off the calculator, folded it and handed it across the bar. As the bartender placed the paper in the register, his gaze shifted to a young waitress striding out to refill water glasses at the single occupied table. When the girl turned back toward the wait station, he suddenly found great interest in a rack of clean shot glasses on the counter, glinting in the slanted light from the front window. As he grabbed one, however, he jerked his fingers back and sucked in his breath, shaking his hand. The blond lady laughed. The Fridas glared.
***
Eh, you know. Not exactly Hemingway, or even Sheryl Crow, for that matter; but it's a start.
Because I've already sent in my unemployment insurance application (a mere 8 months late; go Tess!), more or less finished my homework, am awaiting callbacks on job leads, and wish to avoid doing laundry for at least another 15 minutes, I present to you my half-assed recap of the Golden Globes:
- Johnny Depp looked bathed, for a change! Dressed like a Mexican gigolo, and still in denial vis-a-vis his inability to grow luxuriant facial hair, but it's progress.
- Poor Mariah Carey - having Hilary Swank onscreen in a similar strappy-black dress right before her own interview only highlighted the fact that she was popping out in all the wrong places from hers. Pit-fat is not our friend, Mariah. Next time, consider chiffon, and sleeves.
- Speaking of Hilary Swank, is it really cool to bring up someone's freshly-announced divorce on the Red Carpet? I think not, but HS handled it gracefully none the less. What's next, asking Rosario Dawson some cheeky questions about her DUI? I wouldn't recommend it - she strikes me as someone who'd have zero qualms about bitch-slapping someone right there on the Red Carpet.
- Oh my, was that a sequined potato sack that Philip Seymour Hoffman's wife was wearing? She seems like a cute gal, but really, no one looks good in that style, and the shorter you are, the worse an idea it is.
- I think Queen Latifah is beautiful, but man, seeing the way her dress straps were carving grooves into her shoulders made mine ache in sympathy. That's gonna leave a mark.
- Scarlett Johansson should wear her hair down more often. She looks her age for once.
- Apparently, Rachel Weisz's bangs are pregnant too!
- It's cute when minor stars like Sandra Oh just totally lose their shit over their award.
- Drew Barrymore, you rein in those loose hooters before they swing right out of the TV screen and knock over my drink! Seriously, I just got these rugs cleaned and I'm sending you the bill if you're not careful.
- Nicollette Sheridan really does have the best 40+ face that money can buy. So what if she has to do daily eye-Kegels just to be able to blink?
- Geena Davis totally punked the crowd with her fake little girl story. Well-played!
- Great gag Hugh Laurie came up with for his speech, with the little slips of paper and all. Ditto for Steve Carell and his "my wife wrote my speech" bit. It makes me a little sad, though, for the people who come to an awards show all set to give a clever, unusual acceptance speech but don't get the chance to play through.
- OK, Dakota Johnson, if the thought of being the Golden Globe girl fills you with such angst and self-loathing that you can't even force yourself to stand up straight and smile when your mother's introducing you to the world, then why the hell did you even bother accepting the gig? Jesus, girl, sulk on your own time.
- Pamela Anderson, between the calendars and the bad TV series royalties and the videotape lawsuits, you make a lot of money - surely you didn't need to resort to using a Glad Bag to hold up your rack.
- Emma Thompson, you ROCK that blond pixie 'do and bombshell dress, woman! Especially after doing a movie that requires you wear a toothpiece so hideous that I almost literally couldn't watch you during the preview. I just love Emma.
- Gwyneth, just shut up with the whole "AN-tony" business. I don't care if that's how Sir Hannibal actually pronounces his name; you do it and it sounds as pretentious and nouveau-gentrified as... well, as everything else that comes out of your insipid mouth. By all means, get back out of that limelight and focus on ute-farming your little Tangerine, or Turnip, or whatever produce-inspired name you have lined up for fetus #2.
- Go, S. Epatha Merkerson! I loved "Lackawanna Blues" and I think your next project simply must be a biography of Ella Fitzgerald. Oh please, someone tell me this project is being pitched to her.
- "Lost" won. This makes me happy. I want those pretty, pretty castaways to stay lost forever.
And that's pretty much all I have to say about that. Next stop - SAG Awards on January 29. Then onward to the Oscars! In my Heaven, every night is movie awards night.
All server-migrating issues resolved, I'm pleased to once more be able to intend to update the blog one of these days.
This weekend Bill and I went out for sushi and to go see �Munich� (good story, with some obvious relevance to current events). Bill had referred to the movie title as �M�nchen�, so as we were walking into the theater I began babbling in pidgen German. �Rechts, um die Ecke!� I chirped. �Um die Ecke! Ach, hier haben wir M�nchen! M�nchen, es ist ja hier!� I sounded like a drunk parrot on a Berlin tour bus.
Right after my little bout of saxon Tourette's, we noticed for the first time that oh, by the way? The two metrosexual guys walking about three feet in front of us? Were speaking perfect, native German.
Hello! I'm an American idiot! Wie geht's?