Sondheim’s Passion and Thongs Gone Wrong (though not at the same time)

Oh, the magic of Powerpoint.  Click to enlarge.

With temperatures peaking just above freezing here in the Big Apple, it’s inevitable we spot our first glimpse of douchebaggery in the form of fratboys donning over-sized basketball shorts to prove their dude-worthiness.  This ridiculous display of testosterone ranks just below fist bumping on the douchebag scale (see diagram at left).  On a side note, it's amazing what you can accomplish on your lunch hour at work and have access to Powerpoint.

Anyway, this beautiful spring day also marked the completion of my 2012 tax returns.  Thankfully, Uncles Sam will be direct depositing a nice fat Birthday check into my bank account shortly.

Speaking of douchebags, no self-respecting bro would be caught dead without a tasty ho at his side.  To that end, I present Exhibits A, B and C of the species hobagueus skankilia, as each emerges from her long winter hibernation to entrap the male of her species (Author's Note:  No hos were harmed during filming).

Exhibit A:  We stumbled upon this wily thong-stress prowling the happy hour crowds around the bar at Linen Hall in the East Village, where Trish and I had dinner following Passion (scroll down for review).  In order to mask our covert photo shoot, I leaned in for a candid shot with a mouthful of what is likely our subject's favorite after-drink snack, spicy nuts (pun intended).  Our subject - an NYU law student, if my ears didn't deceive - was last seen lasciviously beer-goggling two young males of the species, petting their sweaters and slurring softly, "Your nithe."  Things aren't looking very bright for the future of the American judicial system.

Exhibit A-1:  A closer look at our subject's "assets."  Can she honestly not feel the draft?

Exhibit B:  Though fully covered, this desperate lass from the ill-informed "House of Black-Is-Slimming," stopped at nothing to squeeze into the six inches of unoccupied space between our table and the bar.  In her sad attempt to cockblock our thong-stress (just visible at left), she freely flaunted her ample wares right in our faces - literally.  Luckily, I was able to move my plate away from the edge of the table before she imprinted on my steak sandwich.

Exhibit C:  This rare sighting of the elusive afro'd-ass-cracker was captured by my work colleague, Tina, on her way home on the exotic Q train.  Notice our subject's exaggerated hunched position, used to obtain maximum crack exposure and reflection on the seat back.  Friends, don't let friends ride the subway bare-assed.

I suspect that as the weather continues to improve, this type of gag-inducing, inappropriate behavior will only increase in frequency.  And speaking of socios-exual politics...

Passion
Classic Stage Company
Saturday, April 6, 3pm

I was giddy as an 11-year-old girl at a One Direction concert as I waited outside the CSC to see another one of my straight-crush (sorry Audra and Carolee), musical theatre idols, Judy Kuhn, perform the lead role in Passion.  I hadn't seen her live on-stage since my senior year in high school (gulp - 25 years ago!), in my first Broadway musical, Les Miserables.

Trish, cursed with bad subway karma, nearly missed the show.  But thanks to the traffic Gods and plain dumb luck, she ditched the subway, jumped into a cab and with two minutes to spare pulled up in front of the theatre.  We managed to take our seats just in time for the dimming house lights.

I'm happy to report that Ms. Kuhn did not disappoint this aging theatre queen.  She gives a subtle and almost - almost - sympathetic portrayal of the obsessive Fosca.  I mean, really, as written, even a brilliant performance by Mother Theresa would not likely produce a completely sympathetic Fosca.

Ms. Kuhn sounds gorgeous and teases the audience with the strategic use of her now signature Florence Vassy belt.  Otherwise, her singing is beautifully controlled and buttery smooth.  And you can never have too much butter according to Ms. Paula Deen.

The intimate configuration of CSC is optimal for this nearly sung-through chamber piece.  Having seen the original Broadway mounting of the show, it seems the actors necessarily needed to amplify their performances to fill the larger house.  The result was exaggerated performances that bordered on garish caricature.  In a small house, the actor's can be more "real" and thus the idea of the handsome and hunky Giorgio (Ryan Silverman) falling for the plain and sickly (rather than hideous and witch-y a la Donna Murphy) Fosca, doesn't seem so far-fetched.

I'm not sure if it's the staging or the actor (probably a combination of both), but in CSC's production, Passion is definitely Giorgio's journey of self-discovery.  On Broadway, Donny Murphy's unrelenting Fosca anchored the production.  It was all about her manipulation, consciously or not.  With the emphasis distributed more evenly between the three main characters, the story becomes less about Fosca's hot bag of crazy and more about the nature and meaning of love.

Though I'm still not quite convinced of the show's premise, this scaled down, intimate production presents a much more successful case for a show that had originally divided critics (as well as Sondheim fans).  What was downright laughable on a Broadway stage, now plays like the over-zealous behavior of a lonely woman.

Shout out to Orville Mendoza who is representin' the Pinoys as Sargeant Lombardi.  I had a the pleasure of sharing the stage with him in NAATCO's Off-Broadway production of Antigone several seasons back.  Between shows we had an impromptu reunion at Momofuku Milk Bar down the street from the theatre, where we noshed on cereal milk frozen yogurt and candy bar pie.  We also got to hear some show gossip, but I can't divulge that in writing.  You'll have to ask me about that in person. 

I also kept waiting to bump into Ms. Kuhn on the street so I could embarrass Trish by insisting on a private concert.  Well, actually, I would probably just hold Ms. Kuhn down until she agreed to belt out the lines "how high does the sycamore grow" and "I don't seeeeeeeee, a reason too be lonely."  If you aren't familiar with either of those phrases you should be immediately banned from Broadway and punished for your ignorance by having all the music on your iPod replaced with Sarah Brightman's version of "Think of Me" on an endless loop.

And Judy, if you're reading this, please reconsider that restraining order.

A British Threesome and Our "Make-It-Work!" Easter

The Pineda family - sans Gerry - in our Easter finery.

Waking from a fitful night of disturbing dreams (namely me in a kinky octogenarian threesome sandwiched between Dames Judi Dench and Maggie Smith – which, upon further contemplation sounds genuinely intriguing as I’m sure those two broads can probably party hard), I groggily awoke to get ready for Easter services. Note to self - never mix tater tots with a late night British art house film.

Like most years, Juan hires Trish and I as ringers to fill out his church choir and for me to tackle some of the more challenging piano and organ accompaniments.  In a bonus Easter miracle, this year we got to celebrate with the church’s new black minister who actually requested . . . wait for it . . . gospel songs!  Yes, the all-white (at least on this Sunday) and mainly senior citizen Methodist choir got to bust it out old school.  Can I get an “Amen!”?

After church, we raced back to Juan and Val’s house to get ready for Val’s Easter Luncheon Eleganza Extravaganza.  What was first planned as a small family gathering had expanded into a day-long southern-themed feast with friends Chris, Dan and black Billy attending and a cornucopia of events and games scheduled throughout the afternoon.  Take that, White House Easter Egg Hunt.

Per usual, we overdid it on the food.  By the time we finished the hors d’oeuvre course (shrimp cocktail, lumpia, various chips and dips, nuts, crackers and Filipino barbecue skewers) we were all stuffed to the gills and sloshed on sangria.  I nice, warm buzz was the perfect compliment to the day's scheduled Easter activities.

Ready, set... hunt!  Chris and Dan's contribution to today's event was an old-fashioned Easter egg hunt.  Who's that lush with the death grip on his cocktail glass?  Oops, that would be me.  It's no wonder I gathered up the least amount of eggs, considering I didn't have a free hand.

After a grueling 10 minutes searching for those pesky eggs (damn that Billy and his eagle eyes), we decided it was time for more food.  The next course - mini-corn casseroles (a la Chris Johnson), red potatoes, squash casserole (a la black Billy), pan de sal, creamed spinach and...drum roll, please...a turducken!

For those who just can't be satiated unless some form of pork product is on the menu (count me in on that group), mom and dad hauled up a spiral ham from Virginia and I cooked up a tray of my nasty (in a good way) bacon mac and cheese.  Don't worry, I only used 2 cups of heavy cream and 1 stick of butter for this batch - I was trying to keep it light given the rest of the menu.  I hope Paula Deen approves.

With our tummies full and my esophagus in full reflux mode, it seemed like a good time to move on to the day's next challenge...

This is not "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from next season's Pineda Conservatory production of Mame starring Valerie Pineda.  It's the first annual Project Pineda Easter Bonnet-making competition.  The rules:  You have 30 minutes to construct some type of Easter headpiece  incorporating the required materials in your design (this year's materials: paper plates, feathers, tissue paper, pink ribbon and plastic eggs).  We were also allowed the following construction aids: scissors, hot glue gun, pipe cleaners and scotch tape.  As you can see, we were all able to "Make it Work!"  (Editorial note:  I think Val purposely closes her eyes in all group shots.  There can be no other explanation.)

After each contestant explained their inspiration and worked it on our living room runway, we decided the competition was just too fierce.  The official ruling - a seven-way tie!  Above, I give some serious pout-face while displaying the asymmetrical lines of my bonnet/art piece entitled "Easter explodes out of the side of my head."

Billy shows off his more subtle yet stylish, brimmed headpiece.  Trish goes out of the box with her haute couture fascinator.

After working up our appetites on the runway, we decided it was time for chocolate.  This fancy shmancy basket comes courtesy of the Johnson-Maceyak household to the Pineda clan.  Thank you!

The Easter Bunny (aka mom) was very generous this year, delivering Easter joy and empty calories to all of today's guests.

In a final parting shot, the under 60 set show off our newly adopted baby stuffed animals.  Make sure to send me your secret material ideas for next year's Project Pineda Easter Bonnet Competition.  Happy Easter!

To explore more of the Pineda's Easter weekend activities, click here.

Orchid Overload and Horny Old People

I've heard people complain that they can no longer sleep past 9 or 10 in the morning because their bodies have been trained from years of habit.  Happily, I have no such issue.  If I have nowhere to be, I can easily hibernate through lunch hour and beyond – which is exactly what I did following a late night at the circus.

But pizza trumps sleep, so after a lazy morning waiting for Trish and mom to return from a morning of beauty, I finally burrowed my way out from under my flannel sheets to join Trish and the ‘rents for lunch.

Though a day in my jammies sounds heavenly, I grudgingly got dressed for our afternoon trip to the Bronx for The Orchid Show at New York Botanical Gardens.

Thank you, Goldstar, for the discounted tickets. 

Mom and dad strike a pose in front of the Haupt Conservatory.

This is my "Memoirs of a Geisha" moment.  I'm pretty, mama!

Not to be outdone, Trish flashes her pearly whites.

Orchids, obviously.

Mom and Trish sporting their new 'dos and freshly threaded brows.

Mom and dad have a romantic moment in front of the orchid pond.

Cool looking orchid.

More orchids!

Even more orchids!

With our allergies on full "red alert" mode, Trish and I can no longer breathe the pollen-poisoned air of the conservatory and head outside to the sculpture garden where we plant a good-bye kiss on this faceless silver giantess' cheeks.

After our orchid expedition, we headed to Jersey for a lazy evening of relaxation before Sunday's Resurrection festivities (doesn't quite have the same ring as "Easter," does it?).  Taking a cue from our trailer park brethren, we decided to forego a fancy pre-Easter dinner and opted instead for a white trash meal of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets.  You can always count on the Pinedas to inject any holiday with class and panache.

With the rest of the family heading to bed to rest up for early church services in the morning, Trish, mom and I decided to stay up for a late night viewing of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.  It's basically Beverly Hills 90210 with old horny English people.  I don't know about you, but living out your twilight years in a dirty hotel with questionable plumbing in a third world country where enjoying a nice juicy, rare steak is sacrilege doesn't sound all that wonderful to me.  

Easter fun continues...

"Good" Friday, Cirque's Totem and eternal damnation

Though technically the Catholic Church considers me an abomination, that doesn’t stop them from hiring my gay ass to sing for their Holy Week masses.  Hypocritical much?  Whatever, I’m crying all the way to the bank. 

It’s not that I’m angry or even hold a grudge.  I just find it odd that I’m considered fit to lead Catholic prayer, yet unfit to enter Catholic heaven.  Or perhaps years of Catholic indoctrination have left me with a subconscious fear of eternal damnation and hellfire due to my profane lifestyle.  Or not.  No matter, a paycheck is a paycheck so bring it, Jesus.  Mama needs to pay the rent. 

Good Friday’s gig was at Immaculate Conception Church in the boogie-down Bronx.  Trish and I cantor there periodically throughout the year and have known the music director for ages, so the gig was a no-brainer.  But today we had the extra pressure of mom and dad critiquing our performances from the congregation.  

Lest you get the wrong idea, mom and dad hadn’t traveled from their Virginia home to bask in their children’s luminous vocals.  Nope.  Mom wanted to come up a few days early to ensure she had enough time to visit the salon in our Astoria neighborhood for a cheap mani-pedi, haircut and eyebrow threading.  Our performance was just a coincidental detour on her road to budget beauty.

Oh well, at least we got a couple of free meals out of the deal. 

Since Good Friday is the most solemn night of Holy Week, after church we decided to spend a quiet evening under the Grand Chapiteau in Citi Field with 2,600 of our closest heathen friends at Cirque du Soleil’s show, Totem.  By the way, that’s pronounced to-TEM according to the pre-show announcement.  Pretentious much?

Ever since losing two-and-a-half hours of my life at that Zarkana mess a few years ago at Radio City, Trish and I have been waiting for the tent shows to return to New York.  At Radio City, we were seated so far from the stage and performers that it felt as we were watching a youtube clip on my laptop.  Though it might have been better to watch off my laptop.  We'd at least avoid the continuous stream of annoying latecomers traipsing across my sightlines.

Totem

Grand Chapiteau @ Citi Field

Fri, March 29, 8pm

Totem still doesn’t match the unabashed whimsy and seriously mind-blowing physical feats on display in our favorite Cirque show, Ovo.  But the intimacy of the three-quarter thrust somehow makes up for the less “showy” acrobatic acts.  At least in the tent, you feel a connection to the performers dangling above your heads.  Not to mention a much better view of all those glistening abs and biceps.

Like most Cirque shows, the dramatic through line is tenuous at best - allusions to evolutionary theory confusingly interspersed with cartoon versions of native Americans (Apparently they love to rollerskate as well as drum.  Who knew?) and a scrawny, creepy Italian dude (don't ask).  But really, who goes to a Cirque show for the story, right?

The best performance of the evening, though, came from Sal and his straight-out-of-the-Sopranos goomba family seated in front of us (perhaps some relation to the creepy dude in the show?).  Clearly Sal was off his meds as he literally grabbed guests away from the usher, leading them to the wrong seats; all the while inappropriately slinging his arm around the waist of any attractive lady in the group and speaking with his face much too closely to theirs for a first meeting.  We (the goombas and everyone sitting around them) all laughed and shook our heads in amusement as if we were watching a cute little puppy retrieve a chewed up tennis ball over and over again.

I can’t wait until I’m also old enough to act inappropriately without repercussion and be labeled “a cute old man” rather than “sex offender.”

More Easter weekend fun...

Mexico City or bust...

A poncho and sombrero is not a good look for me.

Everyone's been asking how I chose Mexico City for my President's Weekend mini-vacation.  To be honest, it was random.  I was trying to think of places that would feel foreign and exotic, were less than a 5-hour plane ride from NYC and had a really good dollar exchange rate.  Et voilá - Mexico City!  And given our unusually brutal winter, it didn't hurt that our trip would coincide with the beginning of Mexico's summer season.

From people's surprised reactions, you'd think I'd planned a trip to Columbia to tour the cocaine fields.  I'm not denying that certain precautions would need to be taken (I'd have to leave my diamond-studded clutch at home) but Mexico City is a major metropolitan area.  Could it be much worse than the sketchiest parts of the South Bronx or Harlem?  Besides, I've been to Manila, Rio and São Paolo.  I know sketch when I see it.

To take full advantage of my three-day weekend, I took Friday off from work as a travel day.  Trish booked us some cheap early morning flights (somehow we managed to talk our friend, Chris Grimm, into driving us to Newark at 5:30 in the morning) and we reserved a hotel near the historic central district (Hotel Emporio Reforma).

Taking heed of online warnings, we also decided to book a private driver for the airport transfers to and from our hotel.  Why take the chance of spoiling a perfectly good vacation with an unscheduled kidnapping, right?

The arrivals gate in Mexico City was chaos.  Just loads of people waving and screaming in Spanish and holding up name signs.  Thankfully, we found our driver right away.  After a polite handshake and perfunctory “hola,” he literally grabbed our luggage from out of our hands and sprinted into the crowded terminal.  Dear God, were our skeptic friends right?  Would we be stranded with no clothes and no cash, forced into the underground sex trade by a wealthy drug lord, arrested and thrown into a jungle prison and our sad situation re-enacted by C-list actors on an episode of Locked Up Abroad: Stupid Tourist Edition?  Or was I perhaps over-reacting? 

As it turned out, our driver was just a brisk walker.  Trish and I awkwardly raced after him but managed to slow him down long enough to stop at a 7-11 to buy some water and make change for tips.

Traveler’s note:  If you visit Mexico City, have plenty of change in your pockets because the service workers here are like your bratty nieces and nephews, always looking for a handout whether they deserve it or not.  Except here, instead of moping and slinking away when you refuse, they kidnap and hold you for ransom.

We eventually got to the van, which was parked at a nearby hotel seemingly miles away from the terminal.  Too tired and sweaty to complain, we jumped in and soon found ourselves weaving in and out of the crazy Mexico City traffic.

At first glance, the palm trees, slightly run-down buildings and all the brown faces reminded me of a slightly dilapidated Miami circa 1980.  Then we hit a slightly more ghetto area and I was reminded of Mexico City’s third world status.  Thankfully, our hotel was located in an upscale neighborhood on a major thoroughfare.

After checking in and unpacking, we headed to the lobby to grab a map.  Refreshed by our new surroundings, we decided not to relax, but instead head straight out to explore the city.

As hardcore New Yorkers, Trish and I decided to hoof it to the historic central square, the Zócalo, about a 20 minute walk from our hotel.  The government happened to be holding a military exhibition and recruiting event so the usual empty square was filled with tanks, trucks and armed militia.  Not exactly the most soothing sight for a first time visitor. 

Not wanting to risk recruitment, we high-tailed it across the street and ducked into the beautiful Metropolitan Cathedral to soak in the Holy Spirit and grab a couple of rosaries as gifts for the 'rents.  

Fancy, huh?  We couldn't get any closer to the altar because the church had been rented out for a wedding that evening.

Mesmerized by the glitz, Trish and I rested our tired tootsies in front of one of the many dazzling shrines located throughout the cathedral.  I haven't seen this much bling since The Jersey Shore went off the air. 

 

One of the fancy carved doors to the cathedral.

Trish strikes a pose in front of the Palacio Nacional, just across the square from the cathedral.

Emboldened by the disappointing lack of grit and crime, on our walk back to the hotel from the Zócalo Trish and I decided to venture off the main boulevard and explore some of the busier side streets.  Heck, it's a Friday night and we're brown, so we blended in quite easily with the partying masses. 

Our first off-the-beaten-path find was Casa Churra.  We stepped right up to the take-out window where lovely Maria (names have been changed to protect the innocent) served us up chocolate and dulce de leche churros.  The restaurant had a full dining room as well, but we had already gorged on tortillas at Vips, a popular Mexican food chain akin to our Denny's.

Trish makes an oh-no-you-don't face in front of Casa Churra's menu board when she sees me eying her churros.

With the completion of churro-palooza, Trish and I rolled down the street and stumbled wide-eyed into a magical land of bread and pastry otherwise known as Pastelería Ideal.  Talk about your carbo loading. 

 

Still brushing the churro crumbs off my distended belly, I grabbed a tray and some metal tongues and started piling on the empty calories.  Ideal works like the Asian bakeries in NYC's Chinatown.  You grab what you want and then take everything up to the counter where they wrap up your goodies and charge you per item.  Of course, nothing was labeled so we sort of randomly chose any item slathered in butter, cream or sugar.

With our 10 pounds of baked goods snuggly wrapped up, we headed toward the direction of our hotel.  Mexico City is laid out like the West Village, no real grid system.  So it was a bit tricky finding our way back.  Along the way we passed through Chinatown (cute, but super small) as well as some seedier side streets where spits of unidentifiable meat were roasting, just waiting to be carved up and fed to the hungry masses.  In my head I could hear the ominous opening strains of Sweeney Todd.  No mystery meat tacos for me this trip, thank you very much. 

Exhausted, we hit the sack early so we'd be rested up for our first full day in Mexico City.

Mexico City - Day 2...time for some art

Saturday, February 16
(Click here for Day 1 of our Mexican adventure)

Having made it through our first night in Mexico City without developing a case of the third world squirts, Trish and I got our tired asses up early Saturday morning to try and beat the tourist crowds.  Since we had a specific itinerary planned out, we decided to forego the Gray Line bus and just jump in a cab.

Scarred for life by the movie Man on Fire, my head danced with images of sweet little Dakota Fanning getting kidnapped and held at gunpoint by Mexican drug lords.  There's no way I was going to end up some billionaire coke dealer's bitch.  So instead of hailing a street cab, we decided to pay a little extra for one of the hotel's licensed tourist taxis.

Thankfully, a cab ride in Mexico City is nowhere near as expensive as a nasty NYC yellow cab.  And after some fairly tame negotiations in broken Spanish, Trish and I were able to secure our driver for 200 pesos an hour (that's roughly $16 US - eat that NYC cabbies!).  Our first stop...

...the Coyoacán district to visit artist and muralist Diego Rivera's studio/house which has been converted into a museum.  We arrived just as it opened and literally had the entire place to ourselves.  Here, like most museums in Mexico City, you can pay an extra fee to take pictures inside - flash-free, of course.  I think it was around 50 pesos (about $4 US).

Rivera and Kahlo were like the Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson of their day, except with talent.  Given their tumultuous relationship, Rivera built a separate apartment (connected only by a bridge across the roof) for Kahlo during one of their many periods of separation.  Mexicans sure do like their primary colors, don't they?

These super creepy dolls were displayed in Rivera's bedroom overlooking his bed.  Dude obviously had a super freaky dark side or one sick sense of humor.

Some of the many shelves of pigments Rivera used and mixed for his artwork.

Walking into his main studio, we were greeted by this army of ghoulish, larger-than-life papier mache figures.  Not exactly welcoming.  For reference, the tallest figure (red devil) is probably around seven feet tall.

 

It would appear Mexicans have a certain affinity for death and morbidly disturbing imagery.  Take this wall o' skeletons also hanging in Rivera's studio.

 

More creepy dolls.  I sense a theme here.

Rivera's palette and brushes.

 

Trish and I strike a pose outside the entrance to Rivera's house.  We just wanted a shot next to the nifty cactus fence.  

After waking our napping driver who waited in the car while we explored (ah, the joys of a third world country - cheap labor!), we headed to our next destination...

Mexico City - Day 2 continued...more art & what else, tacos!

(Click here for Day 1 of our Mexican adventure)

After spending the morning appreciating art and satisfying our voyeuristic tendencies at casa Rivera, Trish and I decided to take a tourist break and engage in some retail therapy.  Since all the travel guides raved about El Bazaar Sábado and since we happened to be in Mexico City on the one day during the week the market's open, we decided it must be destiny.  We had our driver, Jeeves (not his real name, as I can't remember it), drive us to the cobble-stoned San Ángel neighborhood to pay a visit to this Saturday-only market that features traditional and upscale Mexican arts and crafts in a sprawling centralized shopping area.  Think NYC street fair except with fine art rather than five-dollar pashminas and sunglasses.

We didn't take many pictures because the artists were really sensitive about having their paintings and artwork photographed.  I wasn't about to take the chance of getting into some ugly confrontation that would end with me being hauled off by the police to become someone's prison bitch for the sake of a blog post.  I'm not that committed.

With our travel budget tighter than spanx on a Kardashian, we headed straight to the most ghetto looking part of the market - a collection of rickety tables under an old tarp. I know you're not supposed to judge by appearances, but if there was a bargain to be had, it would certainly be here and not in the fancy shmanzy Spanish colonial villa next door.

Sadly, after a fairly uninspiring afternoon perusing the various booths (is there really any occasion where a brightly striped, Mexican poncho is appropriate?), we decided to just window shop and enjoy a taco in the central courtyard.

With the artist's back turned to us, I took the opportunity to snap a covert shot of the art-strewn walkways at El Bazaar Sábado.

After slipping this little chiquita a couple pesos, she let us take her picture.  She's about to throw a freshly pressed tortilla onto the grill for our dining pleasure.

Seriously, a couple pesos can get you anything in Mexico.  We paid our taco girl to take a picture of us from her vantage point.  Below us are the bowls of yummy fixin's just waiting to set our intestines on fire.  And speaking of food, who's that cute Mexican tamale hovering over my right shoulder?

Delicious.  I'm literally inhaling that beef taco.  Notice the spicy, oily goodness dripping onto my plate.

Though most of the fine art (sculpture, paintings and furniture) was gorgeous and comparatively affordable, it was still way out of our budget.  We didn't leave empty handed, though.  Trish did some impressive haggling with a jewelry vendor and made off with a couple of funky over-sized rings.  And me?  Just stuff a taco in me and I'm good.

On to Frida Kahlo's house!