Delicious. My paternal grandmother, lovingly known in Texas parlance as 'Big Mama,' has graciously shared her delicious recipes for sweet potato, lemon meringue, and pecan pie. Clearly the best Christmas gift a bachelor can get. And now for more turkey. Have a great Christmas.
Take a good look. Not simply for more obvious reasons such as deeply, dazzling, dark eyes, but for being witness to one of the best actresses of our times. As of today. For me at least. I had the pleasure of seeing 'Volver' (To Return) today with my dearest Pakistani future-radiologist friend and fellow cinephile. Within River Oaks Theater's beautiful main hall, and with apparently addictive Raisinettes in hand, we witnessed the coming of age of Penelope Cruz in no uncertain terms.
'Volver', set in Spain's beautifully bleak and windy La Mancha region, is the latest work of Pedro Almodóvar. This is the writer/producer, who defies any casual adjectives to describe him, is the man behind such controversial films as the audaciously brilliant 'Hable con Ellas' (Talk to Her), and boldly humanistic 'La Mala Educación' (Bad Education). For those familiar with his other works, and for the historically Puritan (read American) Volver is significantly less controversial in that there are no doe-eyed transsexuals. Promise. However, Almodóvar does hypnotize your sense of reality. Sharj and I decided we could most accurately describe the film as somewhere between warmly absurd, and illogically reasonable. Similar to Penélope Cruz herself.
When speaking of Penélope, we obviously need to shrug history. I think its more than safe to say that Penélope Cruz has not always lived up to her apparent potential as an actress. Even the casual film observer can rattle off the unfortunate 'Vanilla Sky', physically startling 'Blow', and...shiver...'Gothika'. Past pejoratives such as cinematic waif, or even simply 'decent' seem vulnerable to argument. Moreover, in 121 minutes, these past film transgressions are engulfed by her luminous performance as Raimunda at hand. Think post-Lewinsky Clinton amidst an unprecedented American economic growth. Ms. Cruz imbues a terribly beautiful and vulnerable strength of emotion. Perfectly genuine. Equally tangible. Penélope Cruz done growed up. If this is what happens after you break up with the enigmatic and anti-psychiatry Tom Cruise (vis-à-vis Nicole Kidman), Katie should be Oscar-worthy in no time.
Second, it gives a shot out to the Texas Medical Center more than once. When Blanca Portillo's character Agustina is asked why she shamed her family by going on a trashy mid-afternoon Spanish talk show, she responds,
"Prometieron llevarme a Houston. Curan todo en Houston ("They promised to take me to Houston. They cure everything in Houston.")."That's right. Everything. This is possibly the first time I've heard a direct endorsement of the Texas Medical Center. I'll take it.
My Uncle Wayne! After several months of being incognegro, Uncle Wayne has resurfaced. Alright, so he hasn't resurfaced per se. Its probably more accurate to say that I've finally come up for air during these tireless weeks of interviewing and seen my family again. In any case, word on the street is that Uncle Wayne is starting a catering business called The Rib Tickler. CAN'T WAIT. If you know anything about Uncle Wayne's barbecue, you know that it shouldn't be anything short of hypnotically palate-pleasing. Three cheers for Uncle Wayne.
161 Days and 16 hours until I graduate. To be clear its not so much that I'm counting down seemingly endless days of ennui as they are noticeably absent, rather its an acute, feverish elation of FINALLY getting to the good stuff. While I won't actually find out where I'm going for residency until the Ides of March, I do know that I want a couch in the future. I'm thinking this one above is a bit dramatic, but maybe this one, or this one. In any case, I'll be sure to keep you guys abreast of any new preferences for chaises.
A la Gonzo (may his tendons recover quickly):
Listening to as I post
Umi Says by Mos Def
(Haven't listened to this one in AGES, but thanks to the visionary Gil, I've immediately placed it back on heavy rotation. As a thank you to the President and CEO of the Cream Team, below is a thank you.)
Gils the strapping New Englander and Morehouse Man to the left.
Yesterday I fell in love. Who is she you ask? She's incredibly intelligent, sharply socially conscious, passionate, open-minded, has an incredible library, and loaded. Really loaded. She's Cambridge, Massachusetts most venerable institution; this is where I had the pleasure of interviewing the other day. As I walked from the subway along Prospect Street, a wet snow fell as wet as the Gnarls Barkley I was listening to on my hard, cold iPod. After a frightfully frigid 15 minute walk, I arrived at on old, stone garnished brick building to be met by an unexpected warm, unstuffy staff and faculty. One of four departments of psychiatry, this one on the other side of the Charles feels very much in the same vein as Berkeley. Think shiny loafers but Birkenstocks. After four great interviews I walked away that evening (HOURS of interviewing and touring) with a strange sense of urgent excitement usually reserved for children in the last 20 feet of a Christmas morning spring for evergreen-shrouded gifts.
She's hot. I know. But she comes with some perks. Want an Master's of Public Health, go ahead! Access to the libraries? Of course! Want to go to India for a month? Wanna go during your intern year? All this in a quirky, heady mix of intricate brick colonial streets, Indian restaurants, and boba shops.
Furthermore, I'm staying with a college friend Gil. If you know me, you probably know at least one mythical Gil story, but I assure you that he is no specter. In fact, he's got a nice place in South Station, Boston. Its certainly nice to have reminders of years past in a unfamiliar city. I dare say that its a great asset to have a familiar ear calm, pre-interview jitters. From tolerating post-Indian food comas, to encouraging cross-Boston treks, to just sharing Morehouse memories its been more than enjoyable. But I suppose Morehouse (or any decent and socially cohesive institution) will always provide that sort of nameless gossamer epoxy that allows its alumni to pick up tone, timber, and conversation briefly interrupted by 4 years of graduate studies.
In any case I fly back to the barbecue bastion Houston soon, but for now? Nostalgia and veritas.
