Last night, I went out to eat with The Poet at a strange and wild restaurant that I couldn't begin to do justice with words. Think stuffed animals -- not the toy kind -- antique zoological prints, a mantelpiece, strange and careful collections. Think Sigmund Freud's boudoir, as the Poet said. Think the aching and fussy decadence of Vienna with the mirth of Fellini. Two young men played music, one a trumpet and the other a guitar and then a saw. Yes, a saw. It sounded like a woman moaning and not in a good way. Who knew that scraping a bow through the tines of a blade could disturb the air? There were crows (stuffed) here and there. I do hate crows but laughed at one above my head. We shared a plate of meze -- tapenade and humuus on salty crisps. I had clams and chorizo in a spicy broth, sipped a glass of white wine and laughed.
It would seem that the zany atmosphere even changed what I looked like.