So Many Enchiladas, Great Mexicans, a Famous Wood Chipper

How many enchiladas can this half-bred Mexican make in a matter of hours, you ask? 36.

Did we include homemade guacamole, salsa, and rice and beans with that? But of course.

My level of human domestication has never been higher.

As planned, Mexican Monday Night went down at the Grice homestead last night. I even switched up my work schedule so I could come in at the crack of dawn, and leave in the afternoon; I needed to entertain my anxiety of cooking for stomachs other than my own.

After last week's Roommate Night, I'd told the boys I could make some mean Mexican food; as I wandered aimlessly around the grocery store yesterday, I reconsidered my bold cooking claim.

But, oh, what a nice time was had.

With the help of two fine Lady Friends, we made enough food to take us into next week (Recession!), we managed to set off the fire alarm -- but fix it in a style that would make Lucille Ball proud -- and we ended the night on the couch, Youtubing Dire Straits and Peter Gabriel, thanks to my fond childhood memories of the music videos for "Money for Nothing" and "Sledgehammer." We threw in some Robert Palmer, for good measure.

Our collective food coma was alive and well.

I had such a good time and newfound appreciation for My Roots that I spent a good part of my morning revisiting some Mexican movie greats.

Remember "Amores Perros"? It stars the beautiful Gael Garcia Bernal and it interweaves three great twisted, distinct storylines into wonderful movie darkness. There's dogfighting, a supermodel who loses her leg, a hitman. Anyone who knows me would know I'd love this movie on that sentence alone.



And, while "La Mala Educacion" (which I wrote about before) is by Pedro Almodóvar, a Spaniard, not a Mexicano, (It's all the same? No, they like tapas, we like grease.), it also stars the beautiful Bernal. This is a particularly bizarre scene, with him studying a transvestite.



Finally, I stumbled upon one other (unrelated) movie scene today, as I was wandering around in my brain tunnels.

I have a Friend arriving in New York on Friday; we were talking about his trip, and he mentioned how glad he was to be getting out of the arctic weather he's been braving. I realized that every time we talk about how unbearably cold it is there, my mind's mental picture calls up "Fargo." While geographically incorrect, he said it was representative of his surroundings.

I said I hoped he had a solid wood chipper, which refers to this lovely little scene.

Hurray for holiday company.

Great Roommate Night, On Dissing L.A. (and my Life Plans), Confusion

"Jou're schoost being lazy, baby," he accused, his Chilean drawl masking any attempts at enunciation.

He was my "date" for a long-awaited Roommate-Night Dinner. The two roommate studs were bringing their lady friends, so I had to find an Other. I chose a friend I've known for many years ... and now he was accusing me of being lazy! I felt like sending him out of the stodgy, but awesome, Columbia/Princeton Club, sans food, wine or my friendship.

I glared back at him, mentally tainting many of our shared memories due to his gall.

While I make it my job to seek out the end of the Interweb at work, wasting away my days on G-chat or writing on this bloggle, I like to think of myself as "selectively focused" -- not lazy.

When I have to write my movie reviews for work, I become a compulsive, self-loathing wreck; quality may not bear witness to that fact, but it's true. I can't sleep and I like to lock myself up in my room, far from others who aren't familiar with my painful writing process.

Or, when I have rare fits of fiction writing -- when I'm trying to kill Lucas Jackson, say -- one can't make me eat or tear me away from my scribbled notes or computer.

Or, when I play wikipedia wars! I'll be damned if I let my bladder get the best of me ... I will find my way from "fleece" to "anus" in fewer clicks than you. A lazier person might not show such discipline to the sport.

I digress.

So, he was calling me lazy when I told him about my wanting to move to L.A. -- or my considering a move to L.A. He dismissed it right away: a flippant wave of the hand, slight roll of the eyeballs and an unmistakable cluck of the tongue.

But, Dear Friend, I want to work in movies! Sure, I'll write about them 'til I'm blue in the face, but I ... I ... need to be Out There to do it proper! Right??!

Oh, I was just plain wrong, according to this man. Did I remember our trip out to L.A. some six, seven years ago? How awful the place was? How we had fun, but how we thanked our lucky stars to be spending our youth on the better coast?

Well, yes, I do. But ...

(I tend to have friends who like to talk over me.)

And did I realize that more and more production is being done out East? Did I realize that I could find a job out here, without upending my life and being irrational? Did I realize that it's just lazy of me that I haven't been looking? Did I realize that he has a ton of contacts and connections???!

Oh, all these people and their "connections."

So, once again, I've no idea what to do. And the movie gods are no help, either -- I love two movies that are focused on the greatness of these cities. I've recently watched both.

A great Steve Martin in a great scene from "L.A. Story." I need a wise signpost to guide me:



And Woody Allen waxing romantic in "Manhattan."



Despite all the confusion and dismissal of my Life Plans, we had a great night. And now we've planned for Mexican Monday Night at the apartment -- this Lady's in charge of the enchiladas, since I'm brown. So nice to have a happy home life.

New Roommates, Animal House, Reminiscent

I'm going with "colossal" score on the new roommate situation.

The weekend has been one great slumber party, or something reminiscent of one.

I brought over my junk on Saturday morning; the MIT grad, now doctorate-in-waiting Columbia biologist is sitting with a lady on the couch, cracking open a beer. Really? "This is a no judgment zone," he defends. Clearly, sir, no judgment.

The little grey-haired poodle is traipsing around the living room. My room is (at the time) still inhabited by the guy who's moving (and his girlfriend, and his younger brother and his girlfriend). What a sigh of relief. These people have their "shit together," without having it together whatsoever.

By weekend's end, I'd mediated couples' fights, been outfitted for a date with MIT's scarf as a flourish and watched The Simpsons on a Sunday afternoon, as all Sunday afternoons are meant to be spent.

The other roommate, Duke '05 guy, is awesome as well. Grey-haired poodle (named "Hendrix") was his family dog -- the poor pup spent Dude's senior year with him at a Duke frat house ... sweet dog, little brains.

And they've already taken to defending me, almost making Date come to the apartment to check him out and telling me things everyone wants to hear after heartbreak.

The environment is a bit like Animal House in that there's a slew of people about at any moment who are acting like grown children. I don't mind.