The Loop is poop.

      Koji Suzuki is the Stephen King of Japan, only more twisted and complex.
      His breakout novel, “Ring,” became an international horror phenomenon almost overnight. It was a dark, narrative séance, conjuring M. R. James’ scholarly, character-driven ghost stories and even Chuck Palahniuk’s witty social irreverence. The story was so innovative and well written that it spawned numerous retellings, including a Japanese mini-series and movie, both entitled “Ringu,” and later the 2002 American blockbuster “The Ring.” A few years later, Suzuki’s definitive series continued with its first sequel, “Spiral,” a deliciously disturbing study of twisted and morally flawed characters.
      In 2006, Glynne Walley’s translation of the trilogy’s swansong, “Loop,” was first published in English. Set many years after the events of the other books, this iteration follows the research boy genius Kaoru Futami as he investigates a devastating pandemic, a sweeping virus that mimics both cancer and AIDS. In order to find a cure and save the world, he must revisit and dissect key scenes from the previous books through time travel, viewing the moments as they actually happen and learning from the mistakes of the series’ previous main characters. The plot sounds strong and original, and fans of the series couldn’t wait to see Suzuki’s novels turned on their head. It was supposed to be the stunning conclusion to one of the scariest, most lauded horror franchises of our time, in any language.
      But what fans received was an ambitious disappointment. Suzuki’s latest novel is an attempted marriage of horror and science fiction, but it sadly amounts to little more than horrible science drivel.
The first 100 pages are slower than creeping death, reading like the driest of biology textbooks. Suzuki largely abandons his skill of emotive character development, bringing in a cast of scientists so distant and mechanical that the reader cannot care if they live or die. The strength of the author’s horror has always been in his flawed but fleshed individuals. Here, the characters are so faceless that he never even bothers to describe them. These men and women are empty shells, an army of drones sent to tear this series apart.
      Behold a sample nugget of the author’s progressive new style of prose, as one character lectures on cancer: “With normal cells, growth stops when the growth factor in the blood serum is used up and within a Petri dish, they won’t multiply beyond a single layer no matter how much growth factor is added, due to what is called contact inhibition. Cancer cells not only lack contact inhibition, but have an extremely low dependence on...” Shut up, Koji Suzuki! Just be quiet, go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done to my beloved Ring series. This cannot be the finale that I, and countless other rabid Ring fans, have been waiting for.
      The whole novel is so dead and bloated that I can’t attribute its failures solely to the author himself. Despite being Suzuki’s longtime translator, Walley’s work seems awkward and lazy. “Loop” is riddled with painful phrases like, “It was not-unpleasant,” and, “The door was locked, probably it led to a bathroom.” Suzuki’s voice sounds stiff and sloppy, which is starkly uncharacteristic of his and Walley’s moving, poetic and terrifying collaborative effort in the past.
      When the story eventually kicks in, “Loop” does seem to show a little hope. Most of the signature elements of quality Japanese horror fiction are set in motion, including child suicide and random fits of furious masturbation. In separate scenes, these elements are a delightful read to the avid horror fan. But when a character witnesses her only son plunging himself out of a hospital window, and begins to masturbate on the spot to ease her distress, it’s something other than horrifying. It’s just uncomfortable. Suzuki forces this sort of tasteless schlock between tantrums of medical jargon in order to keep the reader’s interest, but the storyline never recovers from its truly trudging outset.
      Most of the novel’s key plot advancements rely on the cast’s outrageous mental leaps, each being a bit too flimsy to be satisfying. For instance, one character surveys a numeric list of genetic bases that compose the story’s villainous virus (3,072; 393,216; 12,288; and other tedious digits that go on for half a page), realizes instantly that they are all solutions to the equation 2ⁿ x 3, and concludes that the worldwide cancer must have descended from a computer virus. Both “Ring” and “Spiral” were revered for their smooth, logical transitions through supernatural situations. The plot twists here, however, are so implausible and poorly executed that I don’t even mind spoiling them in this review. They were spoiled at inception.
      In the novel’s final pages, Suzuki tops this distasteful cake with a cherry so rancid and clichéd, it actually hurts to ingest. He pulls out, from his apparently spent bag of tricks, the sorriest excuse for the already despicable “it was all a dream” ending I’ve ever read. Not only does Suzuki essentially null the book in my betrayed hands, but every book in the series. Of course, his version of this narrative no-no is as overly complicated as the rest of the novel, but, in essence, the whole trilogy never happened.
      Oh, Koji Suzuki, why did this have to happen?
      The inside sleeve of “Loop” asks the reader to “forget everything you thought you knew about the Ring.” Perhaps it should have read, “Forget everything you knew you loved about this series.” Here we have a typically blessed writer and translator misaligning their unique and promising vision into a plodded mess.
      What began as a great idea was somehow ruined in execution, and now die-hard fans must suffer the outcome. “Loop” is an aching disappointment.

The Mark of Soro

      Alone in her bathroom, Holley Soro is pretending to drown.
      Her hands wretch up from the tub, clawing at the baby blue tiles, faking a desperation for the handles she knows aren’t there. She bangs her feet against the wall, for sharp, dramatic effect. Her naked back shivers against the cold, hard porcelain, but she doesn’t mind. She can use that distress to her advantage. She needs that emotion to shine for the camera she has set to capture this anguished moment.
      “I always take pictures of the things I want to paint,” the 22-year-old artist explains. “I work mostly with my own body, trying to capture strong emotions with just my hands or feet. Photos make that easier.” Now she’s fully dressed in a chalky studio, sitting proudly beside her painted drowning scene. Her frilly blue dress matches the hue of the tiles, and her long, black hair and dark eye liner complement the canvas’ brushed shadows. It’s one of the many pieces she’s preparing for this semester’s senior exit show as she tenders her graduation from UGA as a Painting/Drawing major.
      Soro never wanted to be an artist, “but life is funny that way,” she reasons. Raised in Knoxville, Tenn., she came to Georgia as a Pre-Med student searching for a culture shock. “My hometown was like ‘Happyville’ or something,” she gripes. “I couldn’t stand how normal it was. I had to get out!” She thought a new city could help her find herself, but once she made her great escape, she only found herself depressed and homesick. After spending most of her freshman year asleep, she experienced a great awakening through a chance enrollment in an Art History class.
      “I didn’t even realize ‘art’ could be a profession, but that class showed me so many amazing things. Now it’s my life,” Soro says. Her bright green eyes glaze over for a moment as she considers her words. “I have this love affair with paint... the texture, the feel of it...” she admits. As she speaks, her fingers slowly churn the air between them, remembering among themselves the feeling of warm, smooth oil. A painting of those same fingers churning dandelions hangs on the wall beside her. “I love what I do. It’s too bad art has such a bad stigma these days. It’s like people would rather have their children be circus clowns than artists.”
      Not Soro’s parents, though. She says her mother and father, a teacher and engineer respectively, have been boundlessly supportive, even if they’ve never truly understood her art. “I’m thankful every day for them,” she says. “They’re the sweetest people who ever lived.” Family has always meant the world to Soro, so much so that she had her family’s name tattooed on her right foot. Her great-grandfather came to America from Italy in 1920, and since then, she’s says, “it’s just been us... then everyone else.” According to her, the name “Soro” comes from the Italian word for “sister.” It’s fitting, as she’s extremely close to her 21-year-old sister, Leah. “We couldn’t be more different, but it works. She’s an athlete, and I’m... me.”
      While Soro gathers a lot of inspiration from her family, she rarely cites fellow painters as an influence on the work she’s most proud of. She turns mainly to feminist writers and poets for motivation, such as Barbara Kreuger and especially Judy Grahn. “I am what that lady is talking about. She’s such a badass.” Soro classifies her art as a visual voice of third-wave feminism. “I use a lot of feminist symbolism. I think I’m largely attacking the notion that women are expected to be only mothers and just... have children. I reject that,” she asserts, cracking her knuckles like a war cry.
      Holley Soro has a narrow, determined vision of her art. She’s legally blind in her left eye, making her perspective of the world somewhat flattened, like an unfinished canvas. When she speaks, her words seem driven and deliberate, as if there’s a silent monologue constantly mulling under her tongue, constructing the perfect expression of her thoughts. Though she hasn’t made specific career plans for her post-grad future, she knows that she’ll continue to paint. “This art form offers the most possibilities for me,” she says. “You can’t say everything you want to say in a pot. To me, painting is the highest, most expressive art.”
      Soro’s work, including the as-yet-untitled drowning scene, will be displayed from April 20-26 as part of the BFA senior exit show “Stitches” in the Lamar Dodd School of Art.

Holley Marie Soro: she's exactly awesome.
Holley doesn't have a website, but you can find her on The Facebook if you wanna, like, poke her.

Jesus loves you, Music Hates You

      As I write this, I am tonguing a swollen split just inside my bottom lip. I can taste the metallic, bitter tang of the cut, but somehow I’m smirking with grim satisfaction. Somewhere, I’m sure, a young man's fist is also smiling, recalling that gleeful collision it enjoyed to my young, supple face. On February 8th of 2007, I was on the receiving end of a literal and musical beat-down, the kind I’m not sure I deserved. Not because the punishment was unfair, but because I may not have been worthy.
      The angriest metal bands in Georgia, Music Hates You and Baroness, graced downtown Athens’ Max Canada last Thursday evening, and all but burnt the place to the ground. I managed to survive, friends, but I assure you only just.
      The evening opened with a synchronized groan. The Max Canada, formerly the Engine Room, scheduled local drone-rock favorites The Dumps to be the neonatal venue’s first-ever performance. But alas, their drummer was ill, and the knee-high stage sat naked and silent at the 11 o’clock show time. Dozens of greedy metalheads gushed through the front doors, but were met with exactly nothing. We needed music to soothe our wanting souls, but what we got was anything but soothing. What we got was wrath incarnate.
      “We’re Music Hates You. Fuck off,” grunted the rail-thin vocalist as his band mounted the stage. He peered out from his cyclonic hair and beard, judging the crowd, then ultimately giving it the finger. Flood lights beamed from the stage, not towards the band, but flipped around to blind the audience. Music Hates You doesn’t have attitude, they personify it. They make it clear from minute zero that they don’t need you. Hell, they don’t even like you. They don’t like your haircut, your outfit, or that stupid face you make when they pound it into the ground with their rock. Still, the aural abuse is never offensive to the listener. It’s endearing.
      The band erupted into their greasy thrashterpeice and debut album’s title track, “Send More Paramedics.” All the crowd could do was gawk. No one moved, or even nodded; they just observed the rabid animals in their natural habitat. After the third song, the perpetually peeved front man roared, “I’m out of tune, but I don’t give a damn. If you wanna hear somebody in tune, go down to the 40watt! Now quit standing around like a bunch’a corpses and dance!” The music returned like a foaming three-legged coonhound, wrenching out of a mudpit, thirsty for revenge. The crowd obeyed their master, and came to terrible life. Bodies heaved and piled; hair slithered into everyone’s eyes and mouth. The stench of male bonding rose in the sweltering air. Then came the fists. Before long, I caught a right hook in my bottom lip and tasted blood. I stumbled backward, tripping over the stage and slamming my head into the guitarist’s fret board. I’m not sure he noticed, but I was afraid that he was going to eat me.
      When the group’s final dirge grinded to a halt, no one could deny the local metal majesty of Music Hates You.
      The elite headlining act, Savannah’s Baroness, was different beast entirely. The only thing I’d ever heard of them was the reverent rants of their devoted fans. But even having soaked in their stream of awed adjectives, I was not aware of what would take the stage upon the witching hour. Baroness is what happens when art-rock bands like Radiohead or Dredg decide to lift weights and play sludge metal. The result is so haunting, so creeping, so terrifyingly heavy that your only expressible reaction is to claw at the sky and weep.
      The band conquered the crowd with the entirety of their newly-recorded sophomore album, aptly titled “Second.” The band themselves didn’t move much, but the crowd swayed and pounded respectfully. It was legendary. I didn’t even mind that vocalist/guitarist John Dyer Baizley was, with every desperate scream, drenching my face with cold spit. It was sort of refreshing amid the roasting audience. In all, listening to Baroness is like filling a coffee mug with age-old glory, popping it in the microwave and pouring its boiling, totally epic contents directly onto your face.
      Yeah, it’s that pleasurable.
      All kidding aside, though: holy crap.
      Music Hates You and Baro-frickin’-ness. Together. Temporally adjacent. In a town as arguably metal-infertile as Athens, events like this cannot be missed. Cheers to Georgia’s finest on a job well done, and to music as metallic and bitter as the souvenir still throbbing in my mouth.

For stoner-thrash sludge rock, please consult: http://www.myspace.com/yourbaroness
For a fat lip, you idiot, so shut up: http://www.myspace.com/musichatesyou

Metalocalypse, and other philosophers

      The American heavy metal community doesn’t have a lot to smile about. So when a cheeky piece of pop culture makes us show our teeth for any other reason than to bite the head off a bat, it better be downright hilarious.
      Enter 2006’s Metalocalypse, the animated series made by and exclusively for metalheads. One of the newest programs of Cartoon Network’s late-night Adult Swim lineup, this series marks one of the most important, and most hilarious, moments in the history of heavy music.
      Co-created by Brendan Small, the mastermind behind the popular but decidedly un-metal cartoon “Home Movies,” this serial ode to extreme metal follows the exploits of the thankfully fictional death metal band Dethklok. The group consists of singer Nathan Explosion, guitarists Toki Wartooth and Skwisgaar Skwigelf, bassist William Murderface and skinsman Pickles the Drummer, each a colorful character, if that color is always black. Each member represents the stereotypes and insecurities that plague the real-life composers of the genre, and together comment on the grand delusion of metalheads the world over. We’re not the madmen we pretend to be, and if Metalocalypse is any indication, that’s probably a good thing.
      The show has a genius comparable to the 1984 mockumentary This is Spinal Tap. While that film parodied everything that metal bands wished they weren’t, Metalocalypse lovingly lampoons those same absurdities through outrageously opposite means. It heckles everything metal bands wish they were, or sometimes think they are: demon-conjuring, mass-murdering, sword-wielding engines of constant and habitual mayhem. The show also rags on some of the genre’s lowest moments, such as Metallica’s dependence on group therapy, or Gorgoroth vocalist Ghaal’s highly publicized arrest for beating a man in the street and trying to eat his brain. Metalocalypse exquisitely captures the three things that really make metalheads chuckle: blood, things covered in blood, and themselves.
      The men of Dethklok are monsters and imbeciles, unable to do or comprehend anything but that which they deem “totally brutal.” When asked to name one thing that doesn’t relate to guitar, Skwisgaar has an aneurysm. For their bassist’s birthday, the band collectively gives him the darkest and most “brutal” thing they can think of: nothing (note: that word is to be read aloud in a gruff declaration, with a nasty scowl and one clenched fist. Facial hair is optional, however helpful). Even in the first episode, Dethklok murders millions of its own fans, crushing them under the band’s airlifted and ill-aimed stage. The survivors of the crash are sprayed with scalding coffee as the band performs a jingle they composed for a Starbuck’s-esque coffee company. In Nathan Explosion’s own growled insight, “We’re here to make coffee METAL. We will make everything METAL.”
      But by the end of each episode, their amalgam of immoralities pays off quite literally, making Dethklok the “twelfth-largest economy on the Earth.”
      Metalocalypse is hilarious in every way that it means to be. The creators seem to have tapped directly into macabre minds that dictate the heavy metal genre, and cater to the culture that it represents. This marks an important moment in television history, when a program becomes wildly popular by tapping solely into a group of people that are often overlooked by pop culture, and who usually avoid watching television altogether. This strength, however, ironically contributes to the only weakness of the series: it’s only funny to metalheads. I’m not convinced that anyone who hasn’t listened to Slayer or doodled corpses on their Trapper Keeper would find anything of interest in this program. The primary appeal of the show is its exposure of the metalhead’s daydreams and aspirations. The appeal is ultimately lost if the viewer can’t relate.
      But to those who are sick enough to get it, Metalocalypse is ethereal entertainment. It provides extreme musicians something to laugh about at band practice, other than the thought of punting babies into wood chippers or impaling strangers on gigantic diamond-encrusted codpieces.
      But wait, Metalocalypse has that, too.

Filmmaker gets big break

      Premiering in the States just over a month ago, Pan’s Labyrinth has quickly thrust veteran director Guillermo del Toro into the Hollywood limelight. Despite the 11 directional efforts under his belt, Pan’s Labyrinth is the first to showcase del Toro’s creative talents to Hollywood and America.
      Del Toro, a native of Mexico has been in the film industry for 25 years. After working as a make-up supervisor for several years his career took off in 1992 when his film Cronos won nine Academy Awards in Mexico. Del Toro’s international triumphs, however, did not equate instant success in Tinseltown. Del Toro described the making of his first Hollywood film Mimic (1997) as one of the worst experiences of his life. Feeling frustrated and creatively stifled, del Toro returned to Mexico to create his own production company, the Tequila Gang. Since then he has directed a handful of films, including The Devil’s Backbone (also in Spanish), Blade II and Hellboy, the realization of a childhood dream. Del Toro, an avid comic fan and Hellboy enthusiast, has begun production of Hellboy 2 to be released in 2008. Where no previous film flopped, none truly displayed the artistry of del Toro’s direction until Pan’s Labyrinth. Full of action and/or overt horror, his prior films entertain but consistently lack depth. Pan’s Labyrinth, however is comprised of a subtle, thought-provoking terror.
      The heroine is 11-year-old Ofelia (Ivana Baquero). Uprooted with her pregnant mother (Adriana Gil) to a rural military outpost in 1944 Fascist Spain, she must quickly deal with her mother’s poor health and a new stepfather who is a cruel and violent captain (Sergi Lopez). Her only confidant is Mercedes (Maribel Verdu) the housekeeper. Guided by fairies and the titular faun (Doug Jones), she discovers an other-worldly portico and attempting to escape reality and the literal war at home, she eagerly embraces the promise that she will be a princess in this unseen realm.
      The character development is genius. In one portrayal of the Captain’s morning routine he turns his razor blade on the mirror’s reflection in a moment of self-loathing. Although seemingly random, this scene offers a glimpse of the complexities of this character. By shattering the cliché of good guys and bad guys, del Toro’s characters remain relatable although haunted by varying degrees of darkness. The well chosen actors contribute to a collective chemistry that transcends languages, rendering the subtitles unnecessary for comprehension of most scenes.
      The script of this sinister and haunting fairy tale, (in league with the tradition of the Brothers Grimm) is a mastery of stylized storytelling. While shocking audiences with graphic portrayals of wartime brutality it is rich in spirituality and consumed by political undertones. The hybrid allegory presents themes that range from ideas of innocence, obedience and death; correlating Ofelia’s journey to the Underworld and the guerrilla’s refusal to submit to the Fascist regime.
      Del Toro’s brainchild – from creation to production has won him no less than six awards for best foreign film and two awards for best original screenplay. The diligence and imaginative efforts of del Toro’s entire career culminates in Pan’s Labyrinth to both applause and acclaim.

Tragically Trojan Women

The University Theatre presented Trojan Women last week at the Seney-Stovall Chapel. Advertised as a modern portrayal of Euripides’ ancient work, I was eager to compare it to my previous encounters with the severe masks and stylized movements of Greek drama. His play Medea is the stuff of today’s soap operas, yet the rigid action-less storytelling of the Greek stage strips even its most profane moments of their magnitude.
When the chanting began, the plays participants entered the aisles and stage amidst a frenzied un-cohesive dance. “Modern,” in the vein of avant-garde, I was pleasantly surprised with what followed. Their coalescence of modern stage performance with a script that remained true to the original Greek succeeded in breathing new life into a drama whose message transcends centuries.
The production, Prologue, Iphigenia in Aulis and Trojan Women came from Part One of John Barton and Kenneth Cavender’s The Greeks, produced in 1980. While staying true to Euripides’ dialogue and plot, the script uses original arrangement to add clarity to the story. The prologue laid the groundwork and history to provide audience understanding of the events leading up to the Trojan War. Told in a conversational manner, the muses dictate the gods’ displeasure with and inability to keep from interfering with mortal lives. The juxtaposition of Iphiginia in Aulis next to Trojan Women focuses on the heartbreaking toll that warfare has on the families of those involved but strategically remains objective by granting acknowledgement to the personal sacrifices of both sides.
The costume choice was varied. While the muses and the goddesses wore typical Greek attire (tunics and a more feminine take on the toga—in cut and color) the other characters wore 20th century clothing used to clarify their characters identity. For example, Agamemnon and Achilles both donned army fatigues, making it very clear their roles as soldiers. Hecuba was adorned in an early nineties prom dress as representation of her now null position of Troy’s queen.
Like an original 415 BCE performance, the set contained few stage props. Ropes and cloth were manipulated to represent a variety of objects. Achilles brandished a dagger and the Old Man presented a small tape recorder that held Agamemnon’s plans to sacrifice his daughter and keep it from his wife. These little extras remained simple but still added to the storytelling without deviating from the vein in which Euripides’ intended his tragedy to be told.
The starkest difference in the presentation of this play was the selective use of masks and amount of passion with which the play was delivered. Confusion and disbelief clouded the face of Cheryldee Huddleston (Clymenestra) as she began to realize the state of Agamemnon’s (played by Derrick Causey) camp. I was most impressed by Monica Padman’s portrayal of Iphigenia. When Achilles realizes the extent of her beauty and joins in her mother’s cries for justice she shook as she begged them to stop and declared that she “gladly [gave] herself to Athena!”
“This will be my wedding night!” As she proclaimed the benefits of being a ‘free’ woman versus a slave to lust and love as so many were – (thus causing the war itself) her mannerisms and quiet diligence with which she delivered her monologue left you thinking that she really meant it—that she was a willing participant in the sacrificial ceremony.
The same could be said of Amy Roeder’s depiction of Hecuba. As a queen who has been dethroned she begs her ladies to truly see the fate that they had been dealt. “Wake up!” she cries. “Wake up! You are widows!” Her emotional outcry sums up the despair of which the entire production emulates. Even the strongest voices lose their magnitude when emotion is hidden behind a mask. The desperate cries of both groups of women, begging the gods for justice would have merely been the recitations of words without eyes to lend to their passion.
Euripides, a native Athenian is known for being the last of the great tragedy writers. His works were not especially popular compared to that of his contemporaries but gained acclaim after his death in 408 BCE. Although it is disputed that the Trojan War ever really happened, scholars believe that Euripides’ audiences would have made a connection to a similar event that happened during a battle at Melos during the very real Peloponnesian War. A tragedy that remains truth 2500 years later was respectfully and successful revived into relevance once again.

More information for the University's drama department

can be found at: http://www.drama.uga.edu/

Tapas; not for me.

      I felt a little behind the times when I found out that my mother knew what a Tapas restaurant was and I didn’t. So, I was eager to try it when my boyfriend took me to Casa Mia last week. Less than a year old, Casa Mia (proudly standing on the corner across from an Athens’ landmark Last Resort) attempts to lure people in with their turquoise and fuchsia motif.
      Upon entering the restaurant the musical atmosphere is incredibly inviting. The restaurant has an airy space that make patrons feel as though they might be seated outside. The music is fun; showcasing a variety of traditional Spanish tunes while intermittently playing well-known pop bands such as Coldplay and U2 set to mariachi horns.
      Although how tapas came about is uncertain, their Spanish origin is undisputed. What started as small appetizers used to curb appetites between the regimented mealtimes in Spain has grown into a British and American restaurant fad.
      Casa Mia’s menu contains 15 small dishes that are to be ordered in larger quantity and shared between those having a meal to create a sizable entrée. For larger appetites there are also two soups and three salads to choose from. All tapas are $ 4.95 a piece and the soups and salads range in price from $3.00 to $6.00.
      The soups, one chicken and rice and the other a creamy shrimp concoction are delicious. Warm and hearty they are served with small toast points instead of the American staple of crackers.

Other dishes include:

Arepas Venezolanas

Crispy corn pockets stuffed with a variety of filling options.

– spinach and parmesan were very good

Salmon Valapraiso:
A skewer of grilled salmon with a mango-peppered salsa

—the salmon was very bland while the salsa was fragrant and vibrant in color and taste

Asado a la Vinagreta:
Thinly sliced steak served chilled and smothered in sweet onions

Queso Dulce:
A chilled sweet cream cheese like substance

served with bell peppers and toast points

—could serve as a light desert and melts on

your tongue, however the peppers just got in the way

Ceviche:

Raw tilapia cured in lime juice

—was well prepared but incredibly potent.

The majority of their tapas are served with some version of beef, chicken, pork, fish or shrimp. However for the vegetarian diner there are dishes devoid of meat.
      It seemed that most popular dishes were those that were most “Americanized”. For example, the papitas bravas were delicious—petite potatoes cooked to have a crispy shell and soft middle. It was described by Nathan Williams (the boyfriend) as, “a round French fry”. The pinchos de carne (grilled steak skewers) were cooked to perfection – moist, medium well-done with the slightest wink of pink. However, I can go to Longhorn for steak and potatoes.
      The empanadas are especially good, with a strong cheese filling (along with whatever meat you choose) and a flaky, doughy shell.
      The tamalito llanero seems to be the most ethnic of the dishes—containing steak, pork, chicken and veggies steamed in masa and garnished with cilantro and fresh onions. The conglomeration tastes strongly of corn but contains jalepenos that result in an unexpected spicy aftertaste.
      My personal favorite was the yuca frita – deep fried yucca bits that look like a mozzarella stick, served with the Casa Mia sauce. (It tastes suspiciously of honey mustard but with a rose color.)
      The restaurant boasts an impressive wine list. Aside from a well-stocked traditional bar and a few domestic beers they offer approximately 20 South American wines for pretty reasonable prices. Their most popular order however is their house Sangria. Made fresh at the restaurant it is served by the pitcher ($20.00) or half pitcher with pieces of ripened fruit such as mango, apples, oranges and grapefruit. While strong and fruity my friend Sarah Benefield, who prides herself as an amateur Sangria connoisseur commented, “It’s really no better than the fake Sangria that I can buy at the store.”
Non-alcoholic drinks include, traditional fountain drinks, tea and fresh fruit juices. Blackberry, passion fruit, orange and grapefruit are their options. The blackberry or moya was frothy, served with an orange slice and very refreshing.
While the food is enjoyable, the service leaves something to be desired. My first visit with Nathan left me intrigued enough to try it again, but I cannot say after a second visit that I would return anytime soon.
      Upon our first visit we were seated by an indifferent hostess that took our drink order and then forgot to relay it to the server. After receiving our drinks they were overlooked in the refill department. While our server seemed apologetic for any wait we might have had, the restaurant was relatively empty and there were other servers present. The wait seemed inexcusable.
      Upon our second visit, which now consisted of a group of five, a different server seemed distracted and a bit confused as well. The drink orders (aside from the standard carafe of water and pitcher of Sangria) were completely ignored and we never did receive them. To their credit we were not charged for them.
      To top it off, there was hair. Yes, the nightmare that every diner never really thinks will happen. There was a hair wrapped up in one of the rolls of silver, and there was another discovered in the chimichurri sauce served with the steak skewers. And once again, while our group dined with only two other couples we waited for over 10 minutes from the time we received our check to the time she returned to the table.
      The food is recommendable—the restaurant is not. The chef is at a real disadvantage to the lack of skill executed by the front of the house. Casa Mia is however relatively new. They have a good location, an attractive facility and an ambiance that is inviting. Their prices are fantastic. They offer a variety of combination deals including a happy hour rates of “buy four tapas, get one free” or Sangria for half price. In summation they have a lot of potential, and it would behoove the owners to take a closer look at the staff they have hired. Perhaps the kinks will work out with time and in a few months I might be willing to try again for some more yucca.

CASA MIA
WHERE: 269 N. Hull St., next to Last Resort
PHONE: 706-227-4444
WEBSITE: http://www.casamiatapas.com