Cecil's Top Dozen Films of 2005

1. Munich
Truly the most kick-arse film of the year. Docu-drama-esque recount of the Israeli hostage situation at hte 1972 Summer Olympics. More than that however, it follows the nihilist nature of revenge and violence that is both consuming and immersive. Now just for the record, I'm no Zionist nor ultraconservative Iranian President, but I felt that Spielberg gave a fairly heavy deconstructed view of the efforts of both (i.e. Golda and the Palestinians). Through introspectively eloquent dialogue and startlingly appropriate imagery the true nature of vengeance is laid bare. The film-goers' traditional paradigm of terrorist and patriot are sequentially marred until they ultimately implode at the end of the film. Its nice to see Spielberg with some cajones.
2. Brokeback Mountain
3. Syriana
4. Junebug
5. Capote
6. Wedding Crashers
7. Crash
8. Mysterious Skin
9. Good Night, and Good Luck
10. Kung Fu Hustle
11. Broken Flowers
12. Angels in America*
*Although released years ago, I hadn't even heard of it when I viewed it. Thanks to Ribka and Amy I fortunately had the six hour experience. Loved it so much that I HAD to include it.



Favorite actor of 2005
Jeffrey Wright

Somehow this former stage actor has managed to play roles in a quarter of my favorite films this year. Incredibly genuine in each role its hard to imagine its the same guy. From a 1980s surly gay New York nurse (Angels in America), to a over-educated pinstripe modern day Uncle Tom (Syriana), to the Jamaican neighbor as effervescent as he is inquisitive (Broken Flowers). Wright is an amazing and incredibly underrated actor. Not only that, he was born in DC! He's also apparently played the role of Basquiat (per my earlier blogs) that I must check out as well. In any case, he's got more things in development than Apple, so we have a lot to look forward to I'm sure.

Back to Basquiat

Normally my parents are pretty Central Texas centric. Reasons to visit Houston are very limited in include Christmas shopping, escaping from or returning to Texas, or to visit their son...particularly if one of the former happen to coincide with the latter. However, this time they came for jazz and art no less!

The Museum of Fine Arts is REALLY pushing the young artistic supernova Basquiat (Afro-Puertoriceño Brooklynder modern art sensation whose life extinguished at the height of his talent at 27 status post unintentional drug overdose). I casually mentioned that the MFA was hosting a jazz evening with some New Orleans transplant the other day to mi madre as I painted a big ole "W" over our front door. I can tell she was conflicted but curious by her usual repeated questions of time and place and aforementioned detail. Furthermore dad, in his frequently ungarnished approach to conversation, simply huffed, "What's this about some jazz tomorrow?" Anyway, the conversation with mom went as follows:

"Well, where is it going to be?" Dr. Webster said as I fastidiously painted the right curve of the 'w' with thin paint and a thick paintbrush.

"I told you already, the Museum of Fine Arts."

"Is that downtown? What time is it happening?

"6pm. I'm leaving at 3."

Fast forward to 3:30 today as I put the last of my things in the car for return to Houston.

"You're not leaving already are you?"

"Jazz starts at 6; you guys coming? You didn't mention anything." (add cynical look here)

Voilà. Dad hopped out of shower, mom sufficiently fussied-up, and we're out by 4pm. Its only fair to note that despite the previous days plans, in un-Webster character we were running around in that last half hour as hurried and ill-planned as Harriet Miers nomination (but not quite FEMA-esque as yet).

So, a couple of weeks ago, I wrote of the last MFA event I went to in homage of Basquiat with DJs, divas, and Dickies, so it was odd to see trumpets, tweed, and jazz tourists. Unfortunately there weren't any more seats left, but no matter, after about 15 minutes the Colonel wanted to take a stroll to see this Basquiat fellow anyway.

Mom' Impression:
She loves the guy. She clearly loves his kinetic pieces and his suggestions toward the African Diaspora (Afro-American music, the Old South, West African griots, etc) "He keeps drawing skulls." This is somewhere between an indictment and an irrepressible attraction. Kinda like an undeniably attractive self-confessed Atlanta gold-digger who, despite your cognizance, still has her hand on your wallet. I assure you this is not from personal experience.

Dad's Impression:
"At least the band is good."

Here's a link to see some more of the works they've commented on.

In any case, I hope we can have more of these fun evenings. I only hope I didn't scare him away with the experimental 1980s New York modern artists. Let's hope not.

Non Sequitur

No particular reason, but really liked these two photos for some reason. One is sunset from my room in Carmine, TX and the other is my grandma's house.

Merry Christmas from the Websters

Happy Holidays from Dancing Oaks.

High on Life

American wedding tradition encourages its primary participants to seek something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. Well, neither Kevin or myself are getting hitched anytime soon, but in honor of those many casualties of our class, a Jamaican restaurant seemed fitting. Tropical Grill near the immigrant-wares heavy Hillcroft, is certainly not new, but new enough to us. As far as borrowed and blue, all I saw was a mélange of yellow, green and black and chances are its owner was not keen on letting us borrow anything we weren't going to purchase first.

In any case, its going on my list of great Houstonian buffets. My recommendation is the stewed chicken. Its as tangy, savory, and addictive as those lovely Boondocks comics. Ask Kevin. He pretty much single-handedly put a belt-loosening hurtin' on that poor buffet. Kevin's potential tapeworm, however, was not the highlight of the day.

The Museum of Fine Arts Houston has been touting their new Basquiat exhibit for some time, and given that my roomy and I had plenty of the latter, we decided to check it out. Apparently Basquiat was a Peurtorican/Afro-American Brooklyn native whose creative genius burst brightly on the scene a couple of decades ago and then just as quickly was extinguished by an early death. We inquired further with the oh-so-helpful museum employee at the front desk. What's this? You say there will be DJs, art, and student discounts? This evening? Sweet like molasses.

Hands down the coolest party I've been to this year (New Years Eve in San Francisco, I must note was of the 2004 calendar year). Now, I haven't seen one of these in Houston before; I'm QUITE thankful for that clairvoyant soul that suggested, "Hey, why don't we, I dunno, combine visual arts, music, and an eclectic, energetic, artsy crowd?" Merci à Dieu. One does of course have to tolerate the big corporate JP Morgan Chase signs and a legion Starbucks baristas lauding their largess, but no matter. Generally speaking I like these sort of events mostly for people watching. Basquiat's work was also very reflective of the crowd. Multi-culturally influenced, visually cacophonous, and cooler than Michael Jackson circa 1985. Also, to that frequent Houston question, "Where are all the gorgeous, artsy chics?" HERE. Right here.

If you missed it, sorry. They're gone now.

Normally, speaking the 1am hour in Houston, even on a Saturday can be gastronomically pretty desolate. After a quite HoustonPress search, voila, Last Pie, open till 3am "because someone has too." Kevin and I agreed, and as such headed out. Pretty much its a former mechanic garage, it fittingly lends itself only to the young, counter-culture urbanites that it attracts. That's where we met that creative soul, Ed.

Ed was high.

Almost positive his u. tox would show a variety of controlled, less than legal substances. Ed draws on paper plates. Given the plentiful paper plates available for the (delicious) New York style pizza they serve, one can only expect that Ed must draw on them, place Spanish language poems on them, and then pass them to Kevin and I. I had just assumed that chico was hitting on the two of us, but nope, he was just high and friendly. Ed wanted us to draw on paper plates as well. Given the general nature of the evening, we obliged in a creative camaraderie. Before we could finish our Afro-Persian grand oeuvre, Ed decides he needs to tell us a story.

This is the place were I would detail the wonderful coherent, logical, and ultimately rewarding and amusing allegory our new stoned friend offered. But alas, he was higher than a kite. His story, involving a Mexican film, a dog trapped in the floor, and rather agitated hand movements was neither coherent nor logical, but rewarding. Somewhere in is circular, repetitive thoughts we discovered that we didn't know anyone like this guy. One of the things you potentially give up in Medical School Lent I suppose. His friends implored him to join them to leave, which he did....eventually, but not before this picture.

What did we learn from this? Polysubstance abuse may make you interesting, but your stories suck. Sorry, but they do, but join us anytime.

Only in Texas

Every year, our beloved quasi-corporate Baylor College of Medicine, has celebrates Go Texan Day with cowboy hats, tight jeans, and the most darlin' secretaries this side of the Brazos. In honor of one of our beloved New Orleans evacu....er....expat, Nick, having to return to the city he fled, we decided to have a modified version of Go Texan.

Go Gay Texan. Nick is a Texan à la homosexual.

STEP ONE, the aptly named Brokeback Mountain. Normally, the indie film heavy River Oaks Theater is no stranger to a steady, very ecclectic crowd. However, Friday was the opening day of "the Gay cowboy movie." Not only did we have to purchase tickets the day prior, much to the chagrin of the Negro in me, Kevin, Amy, Nick, and myself had to arrive half and hour early....to wait in line....a line full of cowboy hats, tight jeans, and the most darlin' secretaries this side of Brazos. After manuevering four, third row seats, we settled into what turned out to be an amazing and powerful film. The director, Ang Lee, quite the badass Chinese American, also directed the setting-saturated film Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. After two hours of gorgeous mountains, love stricken cowboys, and an audience full of the latter, I can safely say that is was an experience that I will not forget soon.

STEP TWO, food that is and of itself a risk factor for coronary artery disease. Goode Company Barbecue serves as the closest proxy to my family's savory, tangy Texan ambrosia, but only in physical distance. Its good, great even, but those whose taste buds have been hypnotized by Papa Webster will except no substitute. Any place that has a buffalo head on the wall is alright in my book.

STEP THREE, margaritas. Ribka and 'the Mexicans,' better known as Desirée, Lydia, and Christian, joined is for some margaritas at Café Adobe. Yuuuuuum. But alas the pièce de resistance awaits.

STEP FOUR, Gay Kicker Dancing. Last week as we formulated our plans for the evening, our Ethiopian ambassador, Ribka stumbled upon quite the find in the HoustonPress. Tucked away behind the ads for Thai Lady Massage, 'imaginative and explorative' personals ads, and other neoconservative-nightmares, sat an add for Brazos River Bottom. Houston's gay kicker dancing establishment. Unfortunately the supposed must-see (and be seen) night was Saturday, so we only caught a small yet loyal Friday crowd. In true Brokeback Mountain fashion, these were not your Halloween party gay cowboys. If you caught them on the street, you'd have little doubt that they were anything but the truest blue of Republican. Well, at the very least they'd be a more multichromatic variety of Republican. Anyway, using boot scootin' cornmeal and the corner we gave it a go. Given the convivial atmosphere, I'm sure no one minded the jovial heteros.

STEP FIVE. Go home. You've had a great evening that only a progressive Texas can offer.

Non Sequitur

Well, I'm sure it'll get struck by lightening or something, but I would like to concur that, yes, Jesus was indeed not white.

Ahn.

Normally when Iran's new hardline, ultraconservative President Ahmadinejad speaks, I feel just like the guy in the background there: somehwere in between trying to comprehend the logic of utter ridiculousness, praying for your people, and hoping maybe, just maybe, this is all just a bad dream (amazingly reminescent of the Bush reelection). Recently in the International Herald Tribune, Ahmadinejad was at it again. His most recent anti-Israel tirade has got me more dumbfounded than usual. Not because the whole of it is inane as the impoverished voting Republican (albeit equally difficult to dismiss as inconsequential), but because some of it...some of it...actually isn't. THAT'S scary.

Non Sequitur

Poor drinking staw paper fought valiantly against the jeaned, corn-fed derriere only to ultimately be enveloped by the zaftig cheeks of the unknowing Starbucks goer. Little guy didn't even see it comin'.

Persian-Flamenco Fusion? Salaam and Hola!

At initial estimation I feared such a terribly beautiful fusion of music would be never be delivered to its full potential, given its inherent gorgeous absurdity.

I was more wrong than WMD evidence.

Thank goodness. Kevin, somehow stumbled up this performance and I, of course, gave little resistance to exotic aural pleasure (see 19 Nov 05). However, given the day's study schedule, and a still absent anxious apprehension concerning my impending internal medicine, temporarily things were pretty tight. I rushed home after polishing off some studying in gentrified neighborhoods.

Oops. Not enough cash. No problem.

Given my skills gleaned from micro-adversity stricken Atlanta, we smoothly purchased two student tickets (something reserved for Rice and "Rice" matriculants) and began to comfortably slip into our time-honored tradition of people watching.

~ An old majestic silver-coiffed Persian matriarch being diligently attended to by a swarm of expensively threaded progeny.

~ Countless errant well-polished preteens whose ennui and image-conscious age forbade any hint of enjoyment away from their PlayStation.

~ A hypersocial, kinetic group of middle-aged Tehran natives amid a jubilant storm of "Salaam!" and wide welcoming eyes.

~ A contrastingly quiet and quite alone dark-haired Venus admiring her gregarious environment and paradoxically apart from it.

And me: A random Black Marylander. Familiar and appreciative of both musical traditions, no doubt as conspicious as inexplicable, but outwardly and truly comfortable.


Similarly one may describe the music of the evening.

The gossamer tones of the traditional Persian stringed instruments, nimble, round guitars, and a surprisingly complimentary chello provided stable musical counterbalance to the deep rhythmic syncopation provided by the deeply resonant percussion. The percussion was by far my favorite. While the complexity and skill of the strings were to say the least amazing, there is something to be said for this imposingly full instrument, the cajon.

Its just a box.

Apparently back in the days of slavery and colonies in South America, enslaved Africans were forbidden from their drumming music tradition. Always the improvisor, they began to employ simple a pair of strong hands and hard wooden boxes. Its recently experienced a resurgence in modern flamenco music and definitely feels African in nature. In anycase the whole performance was endorphin enducing and accentuated by intermittent standing and clapping by the more fervent and appreciative Iran natives in the crowd. Thoroughly enjoyable and highly recommended to anyone in the future should they stumble upon this combination in the future.

Traditionally Persian and African-derived. A great combination.

Non Sequitor

Hmmm....I've pretty much given up on winter. I'll take this instead. An afternoon of study outside in December.

Pleasant Surprise

So, apparently my tireless admiration of my fellow Morehouse Alumn's antique maps have paid off. In Dowin and Renu's (also known as Downu) largess I have become the newest recepient of the most incredible antique map this side of the Pecos. You evacuate some folk from (seemingly) Category 5 hurricanes and they get all 'thankful' and whatnot. But clearly they can never be as thankful as I. So, we all know that I love all things geopolitical, any and all maps, and of course a notorious fascination of the subcontinent, its people, and....pause...its food (read ambrosia). What better than a gift of a 1855 (or pre-Morehouse) map of British India? HOLY MASALA! While ordinarily the sight of words like "British India" or "Colonization" brings a quiet tirade of historical grievances, in this case, we'll have quite the gorgeous pre-Partition conversation piece, won't we?

Thanks guys, from the bottom of my pseudo-desi heart.

Gotta love Fiber Optic Trees

You know your parents are engineers when having fiber-optic lighted trees doesn't raise an eyebrow. Happy Holidays.

Stuffed Poultry and Wizardry

This Saturday, Audrey invited us over for an AMAZING spread of food, wrestling with Shaheen (middle), and a post-gastromic feast Harry Potter. Clearly have to say thanks, Peng-Fei!

New and legal purchases of aural pleasure

What's a young man in medical school to do once the familiarity of his music has bred an ennui? Clearly go to the music store. After days of diligent research that should have been perhaps spent on pulmonology, an early bedtime, or at least on political editorials in the Washington Post, I made a list of 5 must have albums. With the confidence of a Texan Republican, I used my favorite blue-black Pilot pen to record this aural tome. With this list I made the trekk to my favorite independent music store. I diligently try to find the first one on the list.

Not found.

Well certainly the second one must be on there.

Not found. WTF?

Well, CLEARLY this one will be there.

Okay. F**k this.

In my defeat and frank anger, I breeze by the rock section. What? Jamiroquai has a new album?

My goodness. I've been following this British funk band since oh, 1996 or so, and have unfortunately been dissappointed circa 2001 when they had a less-than-well-accepted forray into pop sans their badass bass guitarist. Well, apparently they felt it necessary to not only release an album right under my nose, they also, thankfully, reaquainted themselves with their bass-heavy roots, politically minded lyrics, all while maintaining an undeniable metamorphosis toward....oh I don't know...perfection.

Endorphin-inducing, heart-thumping, and absolutely satisfying. Who wouldn't want THAT?

I also picked up Madonna. Now, the Afro-American tradition doesn't explicitly forbid pseudo-British pop sirens from her male practitioners, but clearly such activities are generally seen at the periphery, where I've been working for some time. So.

"One Madonna please."

Another astonishing creation. Hypnotic and repetitive. Residing between irresistibly listless and familiar, its certainly induces all sorts of thoughts of endless euphoric gyrations. I forsee a long and fruitful relationship with her uniquely forward-thinking throwback. Well done. Obviously Madonna is no stranger to aural pleasure.

Can't Stand the Rain, 'Gainst My Window

Soaked.

Absolutely soaked to my undies.

So in my haste to prepare for work at the hospital, I neglected to do one very crucial thing. Check the weather forcast. Ordinarly, this doesn't matter much seeing as though I usually luck out which is appreciated given my pedestrian/bike status. However, today....today serendipity's proxy was copious amounts of rain that coincided with my departure today.

At the very least, this latest series of events hasn't been reflective of Pulmonary Medicine at St. Luke's.
1. I finally have an attending who laughs, AND love's to teach. Usually the two have been mutally exclusive.
2. I've found the most delightfully informed and equally non-anal retentive study partner. I think we'll purchase "Best Study Partners Forever" necklaces post haste.
3. My patients aren't dying of terminal pancreatic cancer. Despite being on the pulmonary service, I've had an inordinate number of patients die on me.
4. Afternoon class was cancelled! 4pm lectures were conducive to learning? What do you think?

Off I went to collect my bike. A little rain? As we say at Morehouse, WWMLK,Jr.D? For those unfamiliar "What would Martin Luther King, Jr. do?" The answer, clearly tuck his short white coat in his bag, don a big toothy smile, and vigorously and defiantly pedal 1.5 miles home. So now I'm soaked. Soaked but with that indescribable grade-school feeling of playing in the rain.

Maybe it'll rain tomorrow?

Texas Two-Stepping and Addis Injera: Naturally Bedfellows

One thing in particular stands out about the absolute absurdity of Saturday night. As I was walking around Wild West in my traditional Texan wear....we'll pause a moment to let that set it.... I could not help but smell the tangy, piquant, peppery flavor of my recently consumed Ethiopian food whose frangrance still blessed my senses with an occasional reminder of its presence. My Saturday nights have officially strangled banality, four weeks in a row.

There's no better place to start than at the beginning.

One thing is clear about the Ethiopian tradition (as so wisely asserted by our ambassador Ribka); Ethiopia and her people are what we refer euphemistically as 'event oriented' versus 'time oriented.' Me, of course, also of the brown persuasion am no stanger to a relatively optimistic "8ish" or even "late afternoon." But even I was amusingly startled by "Yeah, I don't know what time people should come to eat, just later. I'll let you know."

I went with 7.

After some fairly fruitless academic pursuits that afternoon I arrive in an apartment bursting with the frangrant air of Addis Abba (not the diesel particulate air of modernity but of yummy, finger-drenching, frangrant food). Growing up in the DC Metro Ethiopian food is as available as the lobbyists. Its no surprise, and quite frankly you forget that its not, say, normal. In any case, Ribka with the tireless efforts of our medical friends visiting from Monterrey, created a spread that would make even the most venerable DC Ethiopian restaurant envious. It would make any Marylander familiar and desirous of East Africa's finest weak in the knees. The thing about these knees currently was that they were adorned with lightly starched, crispy blue jeans.

We were going kicker dancing and two-stepping subsequent to the meal and thus dressed in the manner of those frequenting big red barns to do traditional Texan dances. We were countrified. The likes of Dolly Parton and her compatriots were on the stereo, conversation revolved around the Cotton Eyed Joe, and the unfortunate and frequent use of my first name followed swiftly by my monosyllabic middle name (as is common in the more bucolic areas of this fine sate) filled the heterogeneous setting as we scooped furiously with the injera bread, the delicious fruits of the evenings labor. The strangeness of it all is "obvious to even the most casual of observers" as my old organic chemistry professor used to say of the nebulous nature of the elements.

At Wild West, however, I was in MY element. Its probably been a full year since my last visit, but I'm proud to say that I am no stranger to the place:
- Instead of a disco ball there is a saddle adorned with hundreds of tiny mirrors that sparkle relentlessly the smooth ale colored floor boards.
- Instead of slick Kenneth Cole shoes and man-blouses there are cowboy boots and plaid shirts starched with an obvious zealous effort.
- Instead drunk, wonton, bachelorette party goers there are....oh, wait. Nope. They're there...in full force.
This is all in addition to a beer girl (whose naughty bits are at eye level given the non-coincidental height of the bar, unabashedly reflected in the full length mirror behind her).

Unrelated to this, I assure you, I had an amazing time. I attempted to teach Ribka, Lidia, and Desirée basic two-stepping technique, but they needed little assistance on my part. Salsa and Ethiopian dancing dancing I guess translates pretty well. I also had the honor of honing what has been called 'quite the strong lead' with the oh-so skilled Amy. Her and her husband are quite the country dancing aficionados as made quite obvious by their fluid turns and elegant transitions, which is most impressive given that country dancing and elegance are nearly...nearly mutually exclusive. So I dusted off some old skills garnered from my South Asian, Saudi-born, Tennessean friend (also pretty random) and hit the floor twirling, turning, switching, and scooting feeling the same euphoria I feel after chicken butter masala, snow days of yore, and DeLay's indictment. It should be noted that most of the crowd at Wild West do not share in my enthusiasm over the indictment of DeLay, but rather feel quite passionately enraged by it; this should give you a feel for the environment for our motley crew.

Every 45 minutes are so there was what Amy so adroitly referred to as "white girl time." This was an especially dedicated 20 minutes or so where the music changed from "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy" to late 80s rock and more modern hip-hop. "Whew! Ow!" shreiking from the corner would be immediately followed by a train of 6 slightly tipsy, slightly aggressive blondes in tight jeans and high heels with one of the following:
1. Two drinks in hand
2. A wedding train garnished with extra-large condoms
3. A massive dildo

Then back to kicker dancing.

In short, a Black Marylander, three Mexicans, a New Orleans evacuee, and East Asian, and ex-actress, and a lawyer walk into a bar.....

No punch line, honest.

Non Sequitur

The Colonel on with his new battalion courtesy of John Deer. C'est le futur de moi? Son histoire prévoit son futur...peut-être.

Et la place pour les Magbhrebs a la France? Whodda thunk America to be so progressive versus France?

Hmm.. so there have been approximately nine nights of rioting in Parisian suburbs due to the unfortunate and most likely accidental electrocution of two young North African Arabs (also known as Maghrebs). These aren't your picket fenced, Leave It to Beaver suburbs. These are for lack of a better word ghettos; ghettos whose population happen to be a bit browner and less agnostic than...er...the rest of La République. But after a long thoughtful conversation with my enlightened roomate I've come to some conclusions.

Startling enough, the US (the only real paradigm I have to work with here) is painfully more progressive when it come to its relationship with immigrants versus our gastronomic and pacifist (not an indictment but a compliment) neighbors across the Atlantic. Granted, the US is no grand example of a perfectly harmonious mosaic of people and ideas, cultures and religions, but damn. The French? After a week of increasingly tense violence plaguing the Parisian metropolitan area, the leading newspaper, Le Monde leads with a transportation strike in Marseille.

Merde.

Despite what at times borders on a caustic accusation of political, economic, and cultural exhaustion with the American behemoth, France has got some internal reflection to do. The master's of subtly, I'm sure a glaring absence of true dialogue and understanding of the matters at hand is not lost on many. France is paralyzed an inability to mitigate what it colonial history has created: a nationality no longer bound by a traditional culture or ethnicity.

This has been less of a problem for the United States. The English-speaking New World was created essentially by the efforts of waves of new people which paradoxically created the very national identity they were emmigrating to. Plus, we only got a little over 2 centuries of formal history so the American identity is far more plastic. Let's compare to France. 2 millenia of refining refinement, and a culture that is so protectionist that it has created whole bureaucratic bodies to safeguard the language from English interlopers (L'Acadèmie Française).

So what's a young non-French Frenchman to do? Political power is exquisitely intangible. Your ethnic cultural influence is seen a tainting. Your history writhes with French colonial suppression and deriding hope.

You burn some shit. Cars, stores, whatever. Just as long as someone hears your cry. I cannot claim to know what will become of this, but certainly it requires prompt genuine attention and more than politically (read non-Maghreb) soothing superficial promises of modern and uniquely French change. We'll see. The less than sensitive wife of Louis XVI once said, "Qu'il mangent de la brioche" and we all know what happened to her.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4408972.stm
http://www.lemonde.fr/web/articleinteractif/0,41-0@2-3226,49-707051@51-704172,0.html

Mi Amigo No Es Tequila Juarez

There are some things in life that we must find out for ourselves. While the academian may postulate, hypothesize, and theorize about any number of potential experiences, there are some things even he must undergo in order to truely experience them. For me that this experience was Juarez Tequila.

Mi amiga Ribka was having one of the premier Halloween parties at her Melrose Place-esque condominium off North Shepherd Saturday. I of course, being utterly incapable of saying 'no' to Ribka agreed to go post haste. I even got my fancy modern Egyptian costume out. I race towards Houston from my family gathering in central Texas, arrive at said residence, and within the mercifully tinted confines of my auto, I change into my shiny white costume and donned my desert sun-repelling head scarf. Pretty snazzy for all of five minutes. As I enter, "CECIL! Wahoo! Let's party." kissed with a slightly drunken euphoria that is practically required at these sort of midnight gatherings.

Music blarring, Heidi, Astros players, and Martha Steward casually converse about things that EtOH tend to disguise as perfectly acceptable conversation. Now most of our friends being in the health field the aforementioned topics are boundless. In order to further expedite an amazing evening, our amigos from Monterrey's finest medical school tell us intently about "The Seven Year Curse." Christian's Latin laced accent offered no less than a sobering gravity with his description which was juxtaposed with our far from sober state.

"If someone says 'Salut' and you do not drink, you are CURSED with either seven years of no or horrible sex." This was no lighthearted indictment of the cosmos and we vigorously took our first shot of Juarez Tequila subsequently. Needless to say, "Salut" was bantered about for the remainer of a very long evening which made my account of the following events, completed with the aid of those less wary of Mexican Tequila Folklore, less reliable than I would like. But from the night's/morning's events this is what I've learned.

1. Do not drink with Mexicans; well in order to not kill your social life don't keep up with at the very least those skilled in the art of the tequila shot. All I remember is repeatedly and emphatically announcing "BAILOMAS A LA PLAYA!" followed by gyrations that would make even the most social of Brazilian Carnival goers blush in humility and an equally emphatic assertion that my (non-existant) Spanish language skills were bar none.

2. Do not drink with mid-Westerners; well, in order not to kill your social life, don't keep up with at the very least those named Eric from Michigan. They have livers raised by distilleries and taste buds flippant to the essence of vodka. Must be all the cheese and winter.

3. Do not drink anything from bags in Ribka's refrigerator or non-gelled jello shots. Either are made with dangerous almagamations of products that will bring out the Dionysian nature of a Quaker. Both would be an affront to even the most steadfast sobreity and the delicate nature of ones palate.

4. If a young Mexican invites you to enjoy a candy called Pelon Pelo Rico, do so with the understand that tamarin is as addictive in nature to the most scandalous way one is forced to consume it given its clever packaging.

5. Sleep....sleep is the key to any successful recovery. Mi amigo no es tequila Juarez.

Whew-wee! Family Reunion out in the Country!

There are few things that I look forward to as much as family reunion with their nearly de facto barbecuing, old-school 70s funk, and a whole host of rambunctious Black folk that I'm somehow related to. This year was especially exciting because the Webster clan (i.e. those quasi-Texans who have spent the last decade in the DC Metro) have moved out to 20 acres in the middle of no where. Just us, some dirt, trees, and various small game (much to the delight of my currently non-hunting father).

We've named it Dancing Oaks after all of those warbly post oaks on the property. These 20 acres somewhere between Austin and Houston (and about 60 minutes from the nearest Starbucks) will no doubt play host to a variety of family functions in the future. This weekend however was time for a pan-family/friend reunion. Given our naturally social nature my maternal family, paternal family as well as half of Brenham's finest were invited to participate in exercise in a bit of country indulgence.

So as any good Webster, I invited my closest of friends (and in some cases their siblings from California) and we, as any good Texan, ate our weight in barbecue. While the rest of the reunion goes without saying, the laughing, the dominoes, the loud music, those people that you're not quite sure how they are kin to you, I must take some time to describe the barbecue.

This wasn't just any barbecue, this was barbecue à la Wayne. Uncle Wayne in conjunction with the venerable barbecue devotee my father, created an absolutely hypnotically palate-pleasing fare. As evidence here by our syncronous consumption, there were few words exchanged out of fear of shattering our gossamer gastronomic euphoria. Tangy, sweet, soft yet crispy, and athoroughly captivating oral, olfactory, and tactile experience. To put it into words is simply an injustice. In short: Hot damn it was good. Bacchus and his crew would have no doubt jettisoned their ambrosia in favor of this addictive Texan delicacy. In an effort to save some of this bovine delight for a listless Houston Med Center evening, I tried to wrap some up and hide it in the crannies of the Frigidaire. My clandestine efforts were in vain! By 5 or so, the only evidence that they existed were bones in the trash and smiles all around. Sigh. Next time.

Aside from this of course were the many hay rides. Now, honestly, recently I've been having a bit of an identity crisis. I of course, grew up nomadically around the US with my formative years being in the environs of our nation's capital. Truth be told, I always considered my Texan parents to be a bit émigrés for a number of reasons. They left their home country of the Lone Star State in the hopes of a better life, they're staunch supporters of all things Texan (sans of course their bumbling political representatives), and I'm always having to explain their customs and foods to my friends. I was first generation East Coast and quite proud. Now, things are a bit different. They're back in their native land with tractors, no less, and THEIR vernacular is the common currency. Hmm...what's a brothah to do?

Not quite sure but for now at least, I'll enjoy some more tractor rides and delicious food.