Mole Poblana and The Miguel Arteta Film Festival

Monday, September 9th, 2002 | Film, Food, Friends, Performance

Bob is at the Opera tonight, sans me, for Turandot. We went to see the production a few years ago when I was buddies with the Development Director, who gave us free front-row right corner seats. The far right corner. There was all this hype about the lion that they made for the production–it was even paraded through town for the opening–and sets by David Hockney. Because of our seats, we were able to see only a giant paw and the waving hand of the princess, and the far left corner of the Hockney set.

I am listening to the strangest compilation of sounds, burned onto a CD and presented to me by Mamooshka! last night. He came over to feast on chicken molé poblano with me at Big Chrissy’s, and he also presented us with the strangest but oddly compelling bottle of wine, shaped like what you would imagine a ribbed condom to look like if it were filled with 750ml of wine and made of glass. Chris and I kept rubbing it all night, like Marylee stroking the oilwell on her daddy’s desk at the end of Written on the Wind. So the CD–imagine Nino Rota lost in the Bulgarian Girls’ camp with Serge Gainsbourg and… and.. was that a harpsichord? What am I listening to? Mamooshka!, thank you for making all these sensory experiences possible.

The one thing I regretted was not being able to indulge in Mamoo’s dessert completely, due to an allergy to pecans (note to future hosts and hostesses). As a kid, my parents, who are generally wonderful supportive liberal freethinkers, somehow could not grasp that I was allergic to pecans, or especially walnuts, because the family pastry from the old country had walnuts in it. Dad learned to make it from his mom, and she from hers, and on up the tree… Even now, when they come to visit, and Dad proudly offers me the family pastry, both he and my mom together ask in that same sincerely surprised and disappointed way when I once again gently decline to have a near-death experience to prove to them that I am allergic “You’re allergic to walnuts?”

I’m having a little Miguel Arteta film fest tonight all by my Chrissy. I so admired The Good Girl and Chuck and Buck, particularly Arteta’s balance of parody and sincerity, and artifice and depth, that I’m watching Star Maps, his first film. Okay so maybe one film doesn’t qualify as a film festival. If a film from 1930 is “classic” and Barry Bonds is a “legend,” and you can order Huevos Rancheros “with eggs,” then a “film festival” can be me and my little movie.

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