The Day I Met Saddam Hussein's Aunt

Saddam Hussein is dead. I don't want to make light of this occasion, but I also can't resist telling this story. So you remember that game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? The idea was that you could link any actor to any other actor via a movie containing Kevin Bacon. Well, I don't want to promote Six Degrees of the Llama, but if you are reading this blog, and you happen to know the super-tippy-top-secret identity of the Llama, and in fact you personally know yours truly, then you my friend are just two degrees away from Saddam Hussein. Why? Cause many moons ago the Llama met, and had a lovely, if unsuspecting, conversation with Saddam Hussein's aunt. Or mother-in-law. It is unclear. To wit:

In 2004 I was working with my father on a research consulting project for an NGO. The work required us to conduct field research in Peru, Bolivia, and Paraguay, but in order to get to Paraguay from Peru one has to fly thru Argentina. Since we had family in Buenos Aires--and the NGO had a branch office where we could conduct some archival research--we decided to make a week-long stopover in BA.

At the time, my great uncle was serving as the Bolivian ambassador to Argentina. (The Llama may be but a humble camelid, but his ancestors roll deep.) He was on his way out, though--a new Bolivian president, Carlos Mesa, had come into office a few months earlier and had finally gotten around to appointing my uncle's successor.

Having heard of his upcoming departure, the diplomatic community organized a farewell cocktail party. It was held in the Buenos Aires Jockey Club, possibly the most pretentious building I've been in since I visited the offices of Cravath, Swaine, and Moore in New York. At least the Club didn't vaguely smell of sulfur, nor did it have the feeling that Darth Vader had just been chilling in the reception area. Wait, did I ever tell you about how Cravath has a budding human rights defense practice?

But I digress. Anyways, the day of the reception my father and I went to my uncle's apartment beforehand, where we met two aunts who would also be attending the reception. We arrived at the club fairly early, were given a brief tour of the premises, and then headed back to the main room. There were a couple of folks in the room already, so my uncle said hello and I kind of hung back with my dad.

The first forty-five minutes or so were uneventful. I basically talked with my dad and aunts, and occasionally went up to the random dignitary, introduced myself as Ambassador [Llama]'s nephew, made some chit-chat, then tracked down the family again.

In the course of the reception, though, I noticed that while most of the attendees were speaking in groups of three or more, two older women were not speaking to anyone else. One was short and had reddish-brown hair. The other one was very tall, fairly large, and had jet-black hair, the kind you only see when you are blind, or when you dye it with industrial strength, uh, hair dye. She also had a very large head.

I started paying attention to them, and continued to observe that they didn't approach anyone, and no one approached them. I thought that was weird, so I went over to talk to them.

"Hi. I'm Ambassador [Llama]'s nephew. I just thought I'd come over and say hello."

"Oooh, look at you, you're so cute," said that black-haired lady.

"He's so cute!" said the red-haired one, in slightlty less intelligible Spanish.

"Well, thank you. How nice of you to come to the reception. I'm sure that my uncle will be pleased to see you."

"Yes, this is nice," said the black-haired one.

"Very nice. This reception is nice," said the red-haired one.

"Uh, yes. May I ask where you are from?"

"We're from Jordan," they said in unison.

"Oh, wow. I understand you have a new king."

"You know about Jordan!"

"He knows about Jordan!"

Whereas before they had been fairly reserved and awkward, the two women simultaneously grabbed me by each arm and unleashed upon me a stream of praise (for my "knowing about Jordan") and information (about Jordan). It seemed as if no one had talked to them about their country in years. I explained to them that I had recently taken a course on Middle Eastern history and that I had read about the recent ascension King Abdullah, how he was a young king, and how he was pushing modernizing economic reforms.

They loved every minute of it. For every half-true fact that I spouted, their praise, and their attention to me only increased. Which was tough, cause they were really paying attention to me.

And I was right...kind of. Actually, I really had no idea what I was talking about. King Abdullah was young, but he had recently assumed power... five years ago. He was all about modernization, but he was also all about torture.

As I started to internally question my own expertise on the subject, though, and as the ladies continued to talk my ear off, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was my dad, who was with my two aunts. All three of them were staring at me. My dad was laughing. I kept my eye on him and he kept on laughing, and then did that thing he does with his thumb and forefinger--Ali G does it when he says "booyakashah"--whenever he thinks something is either really worrisome or really funny.

Eventually, after promising that I would visit Jordan... someday... I was able to escape the All-Jordanian Fan Club. I walked back to my dad and asked him what was up.

"How was your conversation, hijo?"

"It was... nice. Those ladies are from Jordan."

"Jordan, huh?"

"Yes, they are very excited about Jordan."

"Yeah, well you know why no one's talking to them."

"Uh, no."

"Well, see that tall one, the one with the black hair?" The whole punchline has kind of been ruined by the wind-up, but rest assured that I was pretty surprised when my dad told me that I had just had a long, wonderful conversation with Saddam Hussein's aunt. Or mother-in-law, he wasn't sure. But he and my aunts were quite sure that she rolled with the big H, in a family way.

Anyway, there's not really a rousing end to this story. At the end, we all left the reception, and I don't remember saying bye to my Ba'athist friends. We weren't penpals, and though I don't think they forgot me immediately, I'm sure that the memory of me faded when someone showed them a map or article on Jordan, which I am sure has happened (probably) once in the past two years.

I will say, though, that I have spent a long time trying to find out exactly why my Ba'athist mystery lady was. Was she Saddam's aunt? Or was she his mother-in-law? I guess the punchline was that after a little research, I realized that it was possible--though unlikely--that she was Saddam Hussein's aunt and mother-in-law, 'cause Saddam's first wife--he is reported to have had three--was actually his first cousin. Ole.

Holiday Movie Round-Up

With the holidays comes a hell of a lot of movie-watching.

The good:

1. Fitzcarraldo (1982): Crazy German dude tries to build an opera house in the Peruvian Amazon. Doesn't end too well, but manages to lift steamboat across large swath of jungle, which is cool.

2. The Pursuit of Happyness (2006): Closest I've come to crying in a movie since The Chipmunk Adventure (1987). (If you're wondering, I lost it during the hot air balloon scene.)

The very good:

1. Das Boot (1981): Crazy German dude tries to pilot a U-boat in North Atlantic waters during World War II. Doesn't end too well, but that's probably a good thing since they're all Nazis.

2. The Spanish Prisoner (1997): Has nothing to do with a Spaniard who is a prisoner. Thriller with Usual Suspects-style plot and occasionally hilarious David Lynch-style dialogue. ("Why did you get me a Swiss bank account?" "Lavish awkward gesture.")

3. The Beat that My Heart Skipped (2005): Am aware that I've recommended this movie on here before, but just watched it again with the fam and was reminded how much it rocked. BTW, I'm offering $10 to whoever can figure out what music Tom is playing when the "Two Years Later" message comes on.

The bad:

1. Happy Feet (2006): Two hours of dancing penguins and no one does the worm? Uh-uh.

2. Blood Diamond (2006): I was previously under the the impression that my deep and abiding love for Jennifer Connelly would rescue any movie from the suck. I was wrong. Okay, it is a bit harsh to say that this movie sucked. I thought Jennifer Connelly was good.

The ugly:

1. Scarface (1983): I'm sorry, but I am so sick and tired of Al Pacino playing an Angry Man Who Screams A Lot. I actually almost put this in "The Bad" category because there was a certain comedic value in Tony Montana and his sidekick Manny, but all of this was erased the twentieth time he shot someone in the face while screaming the F-word. I did learn that cocaine used to go by "yeyo," though, which is the funnest term for a narcotic that I have heard in a while.

Next Stop: New Year's

...and this is how I will be spending it.

Last summer I somehow ended up at a rave in a warehouse in deepest darkest Brooklyn. ("How do you know it was a rave?" Trust me.) It was, ahem, absurd. I am now on their email list and if this party is anything like that one, we--and anyone who chooses to join us--will be in for a treat.

Kehinde Wiley

Yesterday, I went to the Virginia Museum of Fine Art. The hit of the visit was this recent acquisition (left) from Los Angeles-born and New York-based artist Kehinde Wiley. (To get an idea of its size--it is huge--click here.) Wiley, who is 28 (!), paints young, black men in poses reminiscent of Baroque or Rococo classics. In fact, the pose from Wiley's piece, Willem van Huythuysen (2006) is "quoted" directly from this 17th century portrait of a German gentleman of the same name (right). Wiley's portraits are in collections in Brooklyn, Denver, Kansas City, and of course, Richmond; an NPR profile recently described him as one of the "top newcomers on the New York art scene."

When I first saw Willem, I thought it was a simple tongue-in-cheek take on flashy urban style. The more I thought about it, however, and the more I looked at his other work (which is best viewed at Wiley's personal website), I realized that the guy is doing something much more subtle--and valuable. First off, he's making fun of the arrogance of the original Renaissance-era paintings. If you look like a pompous ass standing like around with a sword (or a scroll, or a cane) in the 21st century, my guess is that you'd still look like a pompous jerk way back when.

Most importantly, though, Wiley is asking "Why not?" Why not portray young black men in traditional poses of wealth and power. Why can't they be the subjects of "serious" art work. I also love the fact that someone so young is able to make these points with such flair and style. The guy's currently exhibiting in Columbus, Ohio; definitely worth a look if that's your neck of the woods.

Post-script: If you're not too impressed by this particular piece and are wondering why I love this guy so much, I again recommend checking out the gallery in Wiley's website. That's where I found probably my favorite works of his, with his trademark bright--but spot-on and very attractive--color schemes and patterns.

Trouble Brewing in Bolivia; Hugo Chavez Wants In

I was at the Gutenberg Cafe in downtown Richmond today--nice, cosmopolitan little dig--and my mother pointed out this article in Le Monde about Bolivia. (No, I don't read Le Monde but am proud that someone in my family does.)

I haven't been following my South America news closely enough, 'cause major trouble is brewing in Bolivia. The provinces of Beni, Pando, Santa Cruz, and Tarija are all calling for increased autonomy from La Paz and the Evo Morales government; some people are calling for outright independence. There have been major protests, with dozens of people injured, and, to boot, Hugo Chavez in Venezuela has announced that his country will not "stand idle" at any action aimed at destabilizing the Bolivian government. In other words, that he'll send in troops.

Reuters has the best-English language coverage that I've found on the subject, but it is still lacking. This most recent article, for example, misleads as to the crux of the conflict. With the headline "Eastern Bolivians Vow To Intensify Autonomy Movement," you'd think that this was a regional conflict, an east-versus-west kinda thing. That whole idea breaks down when you look at a map of Bolivia and notice that two of the provinces calling for independence--Pando and Beni--are about as "Eastern" as Vermont is Deep South: they're not.

[This wasn't a journalistic blunder, though; the label "Easterners" comes from the fact Bolivians still refer to the Pando and Beni provinces--as north and west as they may be--as making up the "Oriente"--the "Orient" or "East."]

Rather, the conflict in Bolivia is race- and class-based. Bolivian President Evo Morales, while originally from a low-lying jungle area in central Bolivia (the Chapare), draws most of his support from collas--the name given to the predonominantly indigenous people from the highlands. Beni, Pando, Santa Cruz, and Tarija are home to the cambas--a population that is more European in ancestry and caucasian and mestizo in appearance.

The cambas, whose regions contain 96% of the Bolivia's massive natural gas reserves, are feeling increasingly distant and alienated from the Morales government. As the Reuters piece notes (but way too far down), "[m]any people in Santa Cruz feel they have little in common with the poor, mountainous west of the country, where Morales has his support base."

What now? Wait and see. But I know for a fact that folks in Bolivia are getting very nervous. It will be interesting to see if the U.S. will do or say anything if Chavez keeps up the rhetoric; something tells me it is AAI (All About Iraq) in the Oval for now.

Update: The New York Times just did a great piece on the Bolivia crisis. I agree with the article's diagnosis of the role of race--and natural gas--in the conflict.

Dr. Spock Where Are You?

This video of a small South Asian child reciting the capitals of all fifty American states walks the fine line between creepy and really, really awesome. The head-on, dim greenish light, the heavy electrical wiring screen left, and the look on kid's face when they hit Kentucky all tend towards the former. The novel pronunciation (Texas? "As-THON!" Mississippi? "JACKH-son!") and the fact that everyone involved (kid, dad-cameraman, etc.) all seem to be mutually excited/obsessed with this, tend toward the latter.

Somehow, all of this reminds me of the time my brother and I went to see this Pearl Jam-cover band in Peru where the lead singer clearly and unabashedly did not speak English.

And while I'm at it...

Let me make another holiday gift recommendation: Hair Mayonnaise. You think I'm joking, but no, I was at CVS this morning to buy some hair stuff, and right where my normal stuff should be (American Crew Fiber, which I non-sarcastically recommend) was this big, tall $10 jar of "Hair Mayonnaise." I'm not sure what they do with their hair down here in the South, but if it requires something called "Hair Mayonnaise," boy am I glad that I acquired my personal grooming habits north of the Mason-Dixon line. It even says--right on the label--that it contains "Olive Oil, Egg Products & Herbs." It is actually mayonnaise. Anyways, I spent a good five minutes staring at the thing wondering if I could give this to my brother for Christmas, or if I thought it was funny enough--$10 funny--to purchase and keep in my bathroom as some sort of man-prop to keep my Yeti company. (The answer was no.)

Findlay Brown

So I was watching CSI with my mother tonight (another exciting holiday season!) and during the commercials this ad from MasterCard came on:



Just as it was about to end, I stopped whatever I was doing and thought, "Hey, that music actually sounds pretty good." I googled the only lyrics I could make out--"nobody ever says goodbye" and "come home"--and found out that the ad used the music of Findlay Brown, some sort of English-Danish country singer. The song itself was "Come Home."

Anyway, I spent the rest of the evening on the guy's MySpace site listening to "Come Home," "I Will," and "Separated by the Sea." I really like his sound; his voice is a cross of Samuel Beam (of Iron & Wine) and Chris Isaak, and his music is gentle but quite moving. This very well might be the first album I will actually, physically purchase in a long time...

Peer Pressure Wins the Day; the Llama Rides Again

Reports of my death are somewhat exaggerated. But after repeated encouragement/verbal harrassment from friends and colleagues, the Llama rides again.

AKK: So, I noticed you haven’t been posting much to your blog.

The Llama: Nope.

AKK: How come?

The Llama: It just takes too much time. You always have to be thinking about what you’re going to post next.

AKK: So I guess the “Q” in your name stands for “quitter”?

The Llama: I don’t have a “Q” in my name, Adam.

AKK: …

The Llama: …

AKK: I think the point stands.

The Llama: The whole thing also just degenerates into being a link monkey. Like: “Here’s a funny link.” “Here’s another funny link.” “Ha ha, click on this.”

AKK: But I like monkeys.

The Llama: So do I. In the zoo.

----

The Llama: Hey Sarah.

SB: Update your goddamn blog.

The Llama: What?

SB: That thing about Kahan is less funny every time I see it.

The Llama: That piece was supposed to be kind of weird and tragic, not funny.

SB: Really?

The Llama: No, but… you know. Tell you what. If you join me as a guest blogger, I’ll start blogging again.

SB: Nice try.

----

CH: Yo, dude, what happened to your blog? Update that shit.

The Llama: Okay.

Facts

1. If I were a renowned law professor, I would not devote a section of my personal webpage for my running times. If I were Dan Kahan, though, apparently I would.

2. When I grow up, I want to wear suits like this.

3. We have spent twice as much money rebuilding Iraq than we did rebuilding Japan in the seven years following WWII. We have spent almost as much as we did rebuilding Germany in the same period.

4. We have been in Iraq for three and a half years.

5. This is what my good friends Rufus and Gabe did in their spare time.

6. Coincidentally, Gabe also published the cover story in Science a couple of months ago.

7. I hefted an AK-47 in the evidence room down at the State’s Attorney’s office today.

8. Nope, not kidding. It had a bayonet on it.

9. “It is estimated that Americans now spend somewhere around $10 billion a year on adult entertainment, which is as much as they spend attending professional sporting events, buying music or going out to the movies.”

10. This is a really good poem about a cat.

Creepy Photo of the Day

You fooled no one, Bill. Everyone knows that this morning you left Hillary at home and instead kidnapped Laura Bush, who may make a convincing Hillary but for that indelible nobody's-home/Baby-Ruuuth/"I like kittens!" face that she's got going on.

Nice try, though. At least she looks happy.

Llama still alive, chewing more grass

Hey folks,

Just want to let you know I haven't forgotten about the blog--just have been a bit more busy than usual! In general, I think that from now on I'll try to post every two or three days as opposed to every day. Less quantity, more super quality.

That said, tomorrow I'll be spending eight hours monitoring polls in deepest darkest Connecticut. I imagine I should have some stories to tell after that.

Go in peace,
The Llama

A Job I Hope I Never Have

Google is worried that as people start using the term "Google" as a generic verb--i.e. "I googled the guy to see what he had written"--Google will lose its claim on the Google trademark. (There are plenty of wrinkles, but common usage makes a trademark claim much harder to sustain.)

So... Google writes this entry on its "Official Google Blog" to try to discourage people from using the term "Google" so loosely. It was clearly written by some lawyer pretending to be a Google staffer who's funny! and exciting! but really concerned about this important trademark issue. I really hope I never have to do anything like this.

Why I Love Tom Waits

Friends have asked me about the “Music” section of my Facebook profile. In a list including the Arcade Fire, Sufjan Stevens, and some Latin American artists, one guy stands out—Tom Waits. Of all the folks on my list, he’s the one I know the least about: my knowledge of his music is mostly confined to The Mule Variations, with a couple of songs from Small Change, Rain Dogs, and a few other of his later albums. Here are a few reasons why this has been enough to convince me that the guy is a genius. (Click here to sample most of the songs referenced below.)

The first thing you’ll notice about Waits is his voice. I would say it is a cross between Louis Armstrong and Bob Dylan. Honestly, it sounds like the man gargles every morning with fresh gravel and motor oil.

But the guy is much more than a novelty voice. Waits has a remarkable ability to completely communicate a feeling: physical and emotional exhaustion in Pony, falling in love in Picture in a Frame, and being homesick, heartbroken, and probably drunk, in Tom Traubert’s Blues. And while many artists are good at doing this—someone like Nina Simone comes to mind—what makes Waits special is the manner in which he does it.

Check out his characters, for one. Waits' language is slow and spare, but when his banjo/guitar/out-of-tune-piano kicks in, two or three words conjure up an entire life.

Look at these lines from Pony, a song about a man’s travels around the country, and his deep desire to return home:

I run my race with burnt face Jake
Gave him a Manzanita cross
I lived on nothin’
But dreams and train smoke
Somehow my watch and chain
got lost.

I wish I was home
in Evelyn's Kitchen
With old Gyp curled around my feet

Don’t you kind of want Gyp curled around your feet? (And don’t you want to stay the hell away from “burnt face Jake”?) Better yet, though, some of Waits’ characters are just obscenely—and very entertainingly—out of their minds. Like in Chocolate Jesus. I kid you not, the song is about a man who, instead of going to church on Sundays goes to “Zerelda Lee’s candy store” and, well, eats himself a little candy Jesus. As Waits helpfully explains, “[w]hen the weather gets rough / and it’s whiskey in the shade / it’s best to wrap your savior up in cellophane.”

The best part thing about Waits, though, is his lyrics. By and large, Waits’ songs are not in your traditional first-person, this-happened, that-happened, now I’m happy/sad/nostalgic/in love/really frickin’ pissed off. Instead, while each song has some sort of narrative to it, it is also a mash-up of random sayings, touching—yet entirely out of place—moments, and ambient noise.

While you really have to listen to it, check out this verse from Hold On:

Well, he gave her a dimestore watch
And a ring made from a spoon
Everyone is looking for someone to blame
But you share my bed, you share my name
Well, go ahead and call the cops
You don't meet nice girls in coffee shops
She said baby, I still love you
Sometimes there's nothin’ left to do

Oh you got to hold on,
hold on
You got to hold on
Take my hand, I'm standing right here,
you got to just hold on.

“Well go ahead and call the cops / you don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops”? It makes no sense. But once you listen to the song you’re like “Yeah, go ahead and call the cops.” And its not cause you gained some context from the other verses. The whole thing just fits.

Other people have noticed, too. Do you like Downtown Train by Rod Stewart? Or Bruce Springsteen's Jersey Girl? Both covers of Waits originals. (And in my opinion, Waits’ Downtown Train makes Rod Stewart look like… Rod Stewart.)

Finally, though, since I’m realizing that none of this will really mean anything until you actually listen to Tom Waits, let me say I also get the impression that he is a huge badass.

That’s enough for now. Go listen to the guy.

Disclaimer: As I mentioned earlier, this post is based on a fairly narrow range of Tom Waits’ songs. For all I know, there’s probably ten albums in which he sings Kumbaya in contratenor to a tambourine and string quartet. But what I’ve heard, I either like, or just do not understand, so I’m sticking to my guns on this one.

Are Ivy Leaguers Prude?

This Harvard student certainly isn't. But her classmates are prude enough to notice.

No, Really, Why Did You Publish This, Pt. 3

I know I majored in "Social Studies" and haven't taken a legitimate science class in... hmm... about six years... but this is the most hilariously irresponsible piece of scientific journalism I've seen in ages. A real home run, BBC Online!

In this gem of an article, an "evolutionary theorist" named Oliver Curry predicts, inter alia, that humans will diverge into a "genetic upper class [that] [will] be tall, slim, healthy, attractive, intelligent, and creative" and a genetic "'underclass'... who [will] have evolved into dim-witted, ugly, squat goblin-like creatures."

Oh, but it gets better...

[I]n the nearer future, humans will evolve in 1,000 years into giants between 6ft and 7ft tall, he predicts, while life-spans will have extended to 120 years, Dr Curry claims.

Physical appearance, driven by indicators of health, youth and fertility, will improve, he says, while men will exhibit symmetrical facial features, look athletic, and have squarer jaws, deeper voices and bigger penises.

Okaaay, Mr. Mengele... but... where is your scientific "evidence"? Hmm, there's the problem. If you look at the entire article, you will not find one study, experiment or, um, number to suggest that any of this is true. But hey, if Doctor Curry said it, it must be right.

The Dog Who Loved to Suck on Toads

It is what it is folks. You'll want to listen to this one.

(Thanks to Rich for the lead.)

Modern Slavery, Just Read the Paper

A friend sent me this disturbing article from the New York Times. It focuses on Ghana, but broadly discusses how thousands--perhaps tens of thousands--of African children are sold into indentured servitude by their parents, often for sums as paltry as $30. This is not just an African problem; the International Labor Organization estimates that well over 100 million children work in hazardous industries.

Due to the nature of parental and family relationships, the freedom of child workers is difficult to ascertain. With adults, it is much easier: the ILO's most conservative estimate is that 12.3 million adults are forced laborers. "Forced labor" is a tricky term; it makes many people think of outright slavery. And there are actual cases of outright slavery--I confirmed as much while working as a research consultant for the ILO--but focusing on such cases obscures a larger problem: debt-bondage. This is the sort of situation you observed in the American west in the 19th and early 20th century "factory stores." (You get to the mine/ranch/farm. You need to eat/drink/clothe yourself. You buy your goods at a grossly marked-up prices from the factory store. And your paycheck goes to the store, and not your pocket.)

I'll have more on practical proposals in a couple of months, when I finish a long-overdue paper on labor clauses in free trade agreements, but for now I think it simply bears repeating that forced labor--modern slavery--is a real problem in the 21st century.

There's a Yeti in My Bathroom

If you've been to the Llama's den recently you'll know that he likes to have frames on his walls. With pictures in them, of course, but right now he feels like a nice mature Llama for having said pictures in frames. Custom frames. (Hmm-hmm. This is how I do, ladiez.)

For a while, though, I have been unable to find an appropriate piece for my bathroom. You don't want anything too nice; you might as well put that in your room. You want something a little lighthearted, but not so much that you might as well have SpongeBob SquarePants shower curtains. I found a nice compromise in the art of Tom Gauld (check out his stuff in "Tom's Shed" here). He has a recurring character who he calls a Monster. But I will soon call him:

My Bathroom Yeti. Please come and visit him post-haste. He will get lonely in there.

Technical Difficulties...

Your patiencesness is asked for by me.

Immigrant Narratives

Harper's has a great piece by Cecilia Balli on what happens to border crossers who are apprehended. I didn't know this, but the Mexican government has established an organization called "Grupo Beta" to provide migrants with food, shelter, and (apparently) really long lectures. I also didn't know that an estimated ninety percent of border crossers are robbed Mexican and Central American "bandits" at some point of their journey.

On the fiction side, I'm currently reading The People of Paper by Salvador Plascencia; its main characters are a father and daughter who make the crossing from central Mexico, via Tijuana, to a town in California called El Monte. It reminds me of Gabriel Garcia Marquez at a magical-realist peak, with very entertaining shifts in narrator and perspective. Some snapshots: a woman created out of paper by a self-taught origami "surgeon"; a flower picker who decides to wage a (non-violent) war against Saturn; a Tijuana mechanic who, instead of fixing cars, makes little mechanical turtles. I'm not done yet, but still perfectly comfortable recommending it.

Why Did You Publish This Dept., Pt. 2

A little while back I posted about a bizarre story in the Crimson that suggested, without any merit whatsoever, that Bill Clinton would be the next president of Harvard.

Check out this story in the New York Times.* Headline: "Demure Madonna and Anxious President." What! What? Did Madonna make an appearance with Dubya? No way, right?

Right. If you read the story, you will quickly see that there is no connection whatsoever between Madonna and Bush. All they did was make awkward appearances on television on the same day. I don't care if some overzealous undergrad writes a story about how he shook Clinton's hand (er, Bill Clinton will be the next president of Harvard), but I really... don't know... what is going on here.

*I know some people write New York Times--with only the "Times" italicized--but I think that's obnoxious. Just like the New Yorker writes "coordinate" with an "ö," as in "coördinate." Come on guys, who are you kidding.

Talking Animals Pt. 1: Captain McKittles

The Llama is not the only mammal with powers of speech. There are various instances in modern literature of animals who possess the ability to communicate orally or in writing. Recent exemplars include a hungry goat, and Tom Cruise's dog. Or, dogs that are Tom Cruise. That was why the Llama was not surprised when he came across the following letter. Though the language is occasionally a bit coarse--felines are not as classy as you think--he hopes you like it as much as he did.

Sunny day

129 Barrow Drive
Danbury, CT 06523

Mary
129 Barrow Drive
Danbury, CT, 06523

Dear Mary,

Effective immediately, I would like to establish several rules to will govern our continuing relationship and my continued residence at 129 Barrow Drive. The following items are non-negotiable:

1. Fresh Iams™ every morning.

2. By fresh, I mean straight out of the can. None of this garbage where you ziplock it and sprinkle it with warm water and say “Tasty, tasty.”

3. You clean the litter box every night.

4. Arthur does not touch me.

5. Arthur does not touch me.

6. No more goddamn catnip.

I would like to emphasize that this last item is, like, really mandatory. You may do advertising and all sorts of fancy shit, but you clearly do not comprehend the magnitude of a nip hangover. Picture jumping up real high, like to the TV, and then having the kid blindside you and landing on your head. Repeat four times and you will know where I am coming from, compadre.

I am also aware that the above-named policies may require some time and energy on your part. In fact, you may even have to spend some time monitoring your hyperactive, clearly troubled, Cheetohs-eating child. (FYI, if I actually had nine lives, I would suicide-bomb the little fucker for the first eight.) In light of this, I propose the following merely as suggestions:

1. Instead of leaving every morning, you can stay home every once in a while, and we can watch the Discovery Channel.

2. Isn’t two gerbils a little much? Couldn’t we get rid of one? Nope, I know what you’re thinking—what are we going to do with Squeaks? But don’t you worry—I’m totally on it.

3. If (2) is not cool, then, maybe you could just let me play with them a bit. Or like, let me see if they smell different when they are in my mouth. I’ve read somewhere that happens, you know.

4. We replace the living room wall with one large, bay window. The whole wall. You don’t even have to buy curtains. I mean, who doesn’t like sunlight?

I think that these are perfectly reasonable things to ask in exchange for my loving companionship and my letting you touch me. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Captain McKittles

The Llama is going to get a headset.

Also, when he sends a text, he will do so "with [his] arm outstretched next to the window when travelling on a train."

Apparently, there is now scientific evidence suggesting that the use of cellphones will impede the future likelihood of lil' baby Llamas. See for yourself.

Shortbus Screening

Tonight I went to see Shortbus by John Cameron Mitchell, the same guy that filmed Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Apparently, Mitchell's goal in making Shortbus was to make a serious film that incorporates explicit sexual material. And explicit it is. You will not see sex scenes like this anywhere else other than the sort of movies where actors are named Jack Banger and Debra Rider. Or Jack Banger and Jim Rider. And John Rodeo. (Yep.)

It is an interesting goal, though, and for the most part the film achieves it: the sex scenes are not pornographic and are critical to the plot. But the movie doesn't have that much more behind it. The characters are really confused (and confusing). There is not a thesis or theme of any type, other than You-have-to-try-different-things/partners/orientations-to-be-happy.

But before writing the movie off completely, I should say that the movie does have one saving grace--the final fifteen minutes. I have never seen a Bollywood movie (I know, shame on me), but this is what I imagine an epic Bollywood final dance number would be like if people had little or no clothes on and spent all their time in bizarre cafes/salons/sex clubs in deepest darkest Brooklyn. It may be worth watching just for that.

Apocalypto: Kiwi Camara Redux?

Last night, while watching the latest three episodes of Lost online (welcome to Fall Break land), I came across a trailer to Mel Gibson’s upcoming Mayan end-of-civilization flick, Apocalypto. (Check out the trailer here.)

While watching, I couldn’t help but wonder: will Apocalypto be Kiwi Camara all over again? But on a national scale?

In 2002, Harvard Law student Kiwi Camara posted his property notes online to share with his classmates. In his notes, he used the word “nigs” to refer to the African-American defendants in a famous civil rights case, Shelley v. Kraemer.

This wasn’t a mistake: he prefaced his outline with a statement that his outlines “may contain racially offensive shorthand.” When classmates learned of his posting, Camara made several pretty lame attempts at apologies, including one statement that he would “make a much more conscious attempt than I have made" not to use racial slurs, but that he could not “guarantee it.” (Legal education makes people nice and precise like that.)

Fast-forward to late 2005. Kiwi Camara, HLS ’04, is now a fellow at Stanford and looking to enter academia. He submits an article to the Yale Law Journal under the name “K.A.D. Camara” and it is accepted for publication. Upon learning of Camara’s background and the Journal’s decision to publish him, many Yale Law students were outraged, and urged the Journal not to publish the piece. (It did.) Should an author’s racist or bigoted views affect how we consider his or her work independent of those views?

You can’t help but draw a comparison with Mel Gibson’s current predicament. Gibson, like Camara, (A) made blatantly bigoted comments (and it was way more than one word), (B) later denied he was a bigot (but, come on, no one believes him) and (C) is about to benefit greatly from work that has nothing to do with those bigoted views.

So, are you going to watch Apocalypto? Even though Mel’s an anti-Semite? Just as I was against publishing Camara’s piece, I don't think I'll watch Apocalypto. I believe that it is appropriate to sanction Gibson for his anti-Semitic views, to send a message that his conduct and beliefs are reprehensible. Some may say that it is arbitrary to sanction someone in this way. Really? In my view, punishment in our society has never been rationally associated with the prohibited conduct--putting someone in jail doesn't really speak to the crime they committed (i.e. a forgerer could be in the same cell as a violent criminal). So I’m perfectly comfortable denying Mel his profits because of the ridiculous things he says.

Only thing is that the movie might rock pretty hard. So… I might be inclined to get my hands on a bootleg copy. Or sneak into a movie theatre.

Thoughts?

Back from Pasture, Awesomeness

The Llama has returned from wandering in the desert for [4] days. He is also on vacation. Awesomeness will ensue, promise.

Out to Pasture

The Llama is sad to report that he will be out to pasture for the next three days.

In his stead, he offers the world-famous George Washington video. Many of you have seen it before; if you have not, click away, it gets funnier the more times you watch it.

From My Hoof to My Trigger

The Llama was happy to see that some reporter from the Press and Sun Bulletin, his hometown newspaper, visited his cousins in upstate New York. You can find the whole slideshow here, but below you can find a good picture of cousin Frankie.

The reporter-girl says “This white male actually came to the fence. He's one of two males used for breeding, so we figured that he was trying to be macho.” If by “trying to be macho” she meant, “trying to score some J,” then she is entirely correct. Frankie is all kinds of trouble.

Important Anatomical Update: Since posting this entry, the Llama has learned that neither he, his cousin Frankie, nor any member of his family (read: species) has hooves. We got toes, man. You're damn straight that we spit to establish dominance, though.

Introduction to Vice Magazine's Do's and Don'ts

In college, I spent a summer in California chasing down and interviewing sheepherders for my senior thesis. In between driving sessions in the middle of nowhere, I spent some time in San Francisco, Sacramento, and Los Angeles.

In LA, I made two discoveries. First, I realized that there are men who spend thousands and thousands of dollars on botox, waxing, cosmetic surgery, and bizarro stuff like permanent pec implants. (Hmm... feel a little funny having "Male Pectoral Implants Pictures" cached on my computer.) Anyway, these men exist. And they all live in Los Angeles.

Second, I discovered the most offensive yet consistently hilarious publication I have yet to come across: Vice Magazine. Vice Magazine is devoted to everything that is profane and unholy in this universe. Think of it as a South Park, for adults, if there were no FCC. I will not link to it here. But I will link to the best part of the whole operation, the Do's and Don'ts. Every day, readers of Vice send in photos of people off of the street. Some evil genius provides the imperative--"Do" or "Don't"--and a caption. And V - O - I - L - A.

Okay, so I feel a little bad about that last one. But don't say I didn't warn you.

Run, Barack, Run

The obligatory "What if Barack Obama ran for president" post:

Previously, Barack Obama categorically ruled out a 2008 presidential bid, saying things like "I will serve out my six year term" to the media. According to the Chicago Tribune, however, something about the current atmosphere--be it Warner's exit or simply overwhelming pro-Dem sentiment--has got him rethinking his decision. I'm all for it; as Senator Durbin says in the article, does he really think that sticking around the Senate for another 4 years and casting another 1,000 votes will make him more qualified to run? The Nation blog, "The Notion," helpfully suggests that Barack would have a lock on the Facebook group race.

In completely unrelated news, have you ever wondered exactly how much money a candidate has, or how two candidates stack up in the money race? Click here and find out.

Low IQ, High Entertainment

Remember when you were a kid and you dreamt of joining the WWF? And you fractured your little brother's clavicle testing out your pile driver? Or rather, if you are reading/writing this blog, you had your clavicle fractured when your older brother tested out his pile driver on you? (Just kidding. Kind of.) Either way, though, you always wondered if the whole thing was fake?

Well, now you no longer have to wonder what would have happened had you entered the ring. Steve-O and Chris, two of the tragic figures/stars of Jackass 2, actually decided to challenge a professional wrestler to promote their movie. It all went well until about 5 or 6 minutes into their appearance: Steve-O and Chris took to the stage looking like frat boys on a dare, "Umaga the Samoan Bulldozer" (sample commentary: "Umaga is a bad man. An undefeated bad man.") comes out, kicks their butts, and is about to exit stage left. Steve-O and Chris feign great pain and lie still on the ground until... Steve-O decides to break script, get up, and make fun of Chris for playing along. Umaga does not like this, Umaga mad, so Umaga demolish Steve-O... in a way that looks anything but fake. Enjoy.

We agree on immigration?

Foreign Affairs has published a good article reviewing the current immigration impasse and presenting a blueprint for ever-elusive "comprehensive immigration reform." It doesn't break much new ground--and often uses phrases like "busboys and gardeners" as shorthand for low-skilled immigrants (something that even the most liberal commentators are prone to doing)--but it does make a couple of interesting points:

1. Most Americans are in agreement with regard to immigration, supporting immigration policies that continue to allow high levels of immigration, so long as (A) enforcement efforts are bolstered and (B) current undocumented immigrants are allowed a way to "honorably" earn citizenship (i.e. instead of automatic granting of amnesty).

2. Many politicians ignore this consensus, fearing that a core group of supporters--mostly white males lacking college degrees (the author's words, not mine)--will wield influence beyond their numbers and shut down any policies falling in line with the above.

3. Barring the construction of a border wall, traditional law enforcement at the border simply does not work; the Border Patrol budget has tripled in size and quintupled in budget over the past decade, yet undocumented immigrants continue to arrive in the same if not greater numbers.

4. Given (1) and (3), the most intelligent way to improve enforcement would be to provide a legal avenue for most of the current stream of immigrants entering the country. The author analogizes this to the repeal of Prohibition, when allowing and regulating alcohol ended widespread lawlessness.

Again, not groundbreaking stuff, but it is helpful to see an establishment publication like Foreign Affairs addressing this issue in a sensible, unalarmist way. (I.e. instead of that Time magazine cover a couple years back, "The United States of Mexico.")

On Netflix, Evil Movies

Last night I watched The Spirit of the Beehive, an early 1970s Spanish movie that Netflix pushed on me with furious anger and great vengeance. It's about a little girl in post-Civil War Spain who becomes obsessed with Frankenstein and decides to try to track him down by--of course!--running away to the Spanish countryside. She does not find him. Or she kind of does. I don't know, it sucked. I have no idea why the Rotten Tomatometer comes out at 100% for it, and frankly am starting to think that the thing stops working before the late 1990s.

The night before, I finally got around to watching Blue Velvet, a 1980s David Lynch film that's been on my list since Mulholland Drive. People warned me that it was going to be "disturbing" and that "[y]ou probably don't want to watch that one in mixed company." I didn't find it as disturbing as much as I found it incoherent, unlike Mulholland, which was effectively a riddle that made perfect sense once you knew the answer. I have to say, though, that Lynch is unparalleled in his ability to turn a perfectly nice oldie (i.e. "Blue Velvet") into a creepo sexual-deviant anthem.

Finally, I had no idea that this guy made two of the most disturbing movies I have ever seen: Pi and Requiem for a Dream. I had to turn off Pi after about fifteen minutes--this from the guy who watched The Piano Teacher start to finish, no dry-heave breaks. I didn't turn Requiem off, but I did watch it, in its entirety, with my brother, mother, and 86 year-old grandmother. Yeaaah. Anyway, Aronofsky is coming out with a new movie. I will not be seeing it.

All this being said, just so you don't think the Llama is not a movie snob (if you know me, you know that, generally, the more artsy/independent/French the movie, the better) or just a hater, let me make one recommendation: The Beat that My Heart Skipped.

Bill Clinton will not be the next president of Harvard

The Harvard Crimson fronts a curious story on Bill Clinton becoming the next president of Harvard University. Curious because, if you read the article, it becomes exceedingly obvious that there is no chance in hell that Clinton will be named president. Rather, it appears that the writer’s chief motive was to publicly memorialize the fact that he shook hands with Bill.

In other news, however, a little bird recently told the Llama that Dean Harold Koh of the Yale Law School, currently a member of Harvard's Board of Overseers, is in fact high in the running for the presidency of Harvard. Not going to substantiate that. Just going to throw that out there.

Update: A now-medium-sized bird claims that Koh is in fact one of a handful of top candidates; the short-list also reportedly includes Elena Kagan, Dean of Harvard Law School. Again, no substantiation here.

The Llama on Patrol

Disclaimer: Names, places, and other things-that-may-or-may-not-have-happened have been (liberally) altered to protect the innocent, maximize entertainment, and minimize the Llama's chances of getting kicked out of his prosecution externship. In fact, I’m just going to come out in say that, if this were a book, it would be in the fiction section. But like historical fiction, a la The Interpretation of Murder.

Last night, I took the sweetest field trip ever: a six-hour ride-along with the local police department. Two domestic disturbance calls, one expired car registration, and one brief (very brief) high-speed pursuit later, I am considering dropping it all and joining the Force. A minute-by-minute recounting of the evening:

5:35pm: The Llama shows up at the station, five minutes fashionably en retard. He is ready to enforce some law.

5:43pm: The front desk officer explains that the Llama has been assigned Officer Thomas for his ride-along. He inquires, and is assured, that Officer Thomas is also ready to get his law on.

6:04pm: The Llama meets Officer Thomas. He is not a small man. (Small man = less than 6’5”, 275 pounds.)

6:18pm: Officer Thomas and the Llama respond to a domestic disturbance call.

6:19pm: Officer Thomas enters the premises and introduces himself to the complainants.

6:20pm: Officer Thomas is asked “[w]ho the hell...the short guy [is].”

6:21pm: The Llama introduces himself to the complainants.

6:21-6:53pm: Good ol’ fashioned sleuthing takes place. Llama Tip to Perps #1: If you are on crack, do not attempt to engage in prolonged conversation with an officer of the law. If you engage in such conversation, do not repeatedly interrupt yourself to scream “[w]here the f-ck is [your] pink jacket.”

6:54pm: Good ol’ fashioned arresting takes place.

7:13pm: Perp bus arrives and suspect is sent to jail.

7:14-7:36pm: Patrol mean streets.

7:37pm: Officer Thomas identifies a vehicle with an expired registration sticker.

7:39-7:53pm: Officer Thomas pulls over vehicle, calls in plates, and begins to interrogate driver. There is a Baby on Board.

7:53-8:01pm: Driver explains that his wife had just sent in renewal forms last week, which is a wholly satisfactory explanation given that registration expired several months ago. Plus, driver always gets pulled over all the time while all of these assholes who really do the bad stuff get nothing. Like, the other day there was a shooting on Elbridge Street. Why doesn’t Officer Thomas go look at their license plates.

8:02pm: Officer Thomas returns to patrol vehicle.

8:07pm: Good ol’ fashioned ticketing to the maximum extent provided for by law takes place.

8:13-9:03pm: Code 46 (Dinner)

9:07pm: Upon exiting the parking lot, Officer Thomas observes blue Toyota Camry idling in front of a brick house 50 yards down the street.

9:09pm: Officer Thomas passes vehicle on left hand side of the road, making visual contact with driver.

9:09:01pm: Driver peels out of parking spot in opposite direction. Llama Tip to Perps #2: if you are in the process of selling or purchasing narcotics, and make eye contact with a police officer, you will want to at least wait until the officer is no longer looking at you to mouth an obscenity, appear obviously distressed, and peel out of your parking spot.

9:09:02pm: Officer Thomas does a U-turn and accelerates at maximum speed in pursuit of suspect.

9:09:03pm-9:11pm: --Awesomeness--

9:12pm: Officer Thomas admits that he no longer has any idea where suspect went.

9:13pm: The Llama assures Officer Thomas that this sort of thing happens all the time, really, it’s no big deal, we can still cuddle and stuff and have a good time.

9:14-10:05pm: Patrol mean streets some mo'.

10:06pm: The Llama realizes that Officer Thomas does not know that Llama is only authorized to ride-along until 10:00pm. Llama does not make significant effort to inform him of this mistake.

10:07-10:34pm: Patrol mean street in stationary vehicle.

10:35pm: Officer Thomas responds to second domestic disturbance call of the evening.

10:41pm: Officer Thomas meets alleged complainant and her boyfriend, both affiliates of local university.

10:53pm: It is unclear to Officer Thomas, and to the Llama, whether alleged complainant and her boyfriend were actually part of a domestic dispute, or if neighbors called the cops as part of a very peculiar, if not amusing, form of class warfare.

10:56pm: Officer Thomas informs the Llama that he needs to stop by nearby deserted police substation “to, like, fill out some papers.”

11:04pm: Officer Thomas and the Llama arrive and enter substation.

11:06-11:30pm: The Daily Show With John Stewart

11:46pm: Officer Thomas drives the Llama home. The Llama is disappointed that no one observes him getting out of a law enforcement vehicle.

11:47pm: Important work has been completed; there is peace and justice, and a little bit of law enforcement, in this world.

Valentin Paniagua, 1936-2006

The Llama is sad to report the death of Valentin Paniagua, the former President of Peru who led the country back to democracy after a decade of increasingly corrupt rule under Alberto Fujimori. He was only in office for eight months, but the honesty and transparency with which he conducted his administration set a high standard for subsequent governments.

I actually had the chance to get to know Paniagua a couple years ago. In college, I was part of a group called HACIA Democracy that, in addition to running a model OAS conference in Central America, brought politicians and other prominent Latin American speakers directly to campus. One winter morning in early 2002, a classmate and I were charged with picking up Paniagua from Logan Airport and taking him to his guest room on the Harvard campus.

I could tell straight away that he was a quality guy when, faced with the sight of two college students who clearly had no idea how to tie their ties--let alone what to do/say/bring when one greets a former head of state--he just smiled and said he was happy to see us. We took him home in a Yellow Cab.

Throughout his visit--including a dinner and question and answer session with HACIA folks--he was exceedingly understated, yet still quite dignified and direct. I don't remember exactly what he said when I asked him about Lori Berenson, but I remember thinking that it was all eminently reasonable, how silly of me to question such a thing, etc. etc. And even though he called me "Arturo" when he said goodbye a day or two later--he probably never knew my name to begin with--it was a privilege to know him.

Rick Santorum, Party Animal

The New York Times came out with a great article today analyzing the GOP’s strategy entering the last three weeks of campaigning. The Republicans are in full crisis mode, “circling their wagons” and cutting off funding to candidates they think are dead in the water. Who are we talking about? In the Senate, that’s DeWine (R-OH), Burns (R-MT), Chafee (R-RI), and (drumroll, please) Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania. This should come as no surprise, as Santorum has been consistently trailing in the polls in spite of having almost twice as much money.

What does this mean for Santorum, though? A huuuge party. This summer I spent some time on the Hill in a committee office down the hall from Santorum’s personal office (i.e. where he actually has his desk). When you walk by any senator’s personal office, you notice certain quirks about it. Obama’s has lots of pictures of Lincoln and serves Baby Ruth candy bars (made in Chicago). Kennedy’s has beautiful photographs and tons of Kennedy family memorabilia. I never saw the front (or just-inside) of Santorum’s office, though, because it was always mobbed by 30 people eagerly awaiting His arrival. Yep, Santorum loves getting a war-hero welcome whenever he comes back from a floor vote, and arranges for visiting parties to wait outside his office to shower him with praise, high-fives, and “Senator! Senator!” photo ops. Pretty hilarious when you stop thinking about how creepy it is.

(The funny thing I noticed is that half of the people waiting were invariably schoolchildren who were too young/naive/tied to their teacher with a harness to realize that they were waiting to meet the kind of guy who, inter alia, criticizes Katrina victims for ignoring storm warnings and proposes that we increase punishments for those who decide to “ride it out.” Upstanding dude, Rick Santorum.)

The thing to realize, though, is that this was in June, when Santorum was already ten points down in the polls. It was his way of giving himself a mid-day ego boost; how bad can it be when Mrs. Petley's first grade class is adamant that you are the coolest Vice President ever? Anyway, you can only imagine what sorts of ragers Team Santorum is throwing now that his own party has counted him out.

The Llama Sings and Confuses Older Folks

Last night and this morning my a cappella group at the law school, Six Angry Men, performed for ten of the eleven alumni classes having reunions at the law school. We just did two numbers—"Coney Island Baby" and a medley of "Twist and Shout" and "La Bamba"—but it was a lot of fun. And educational too: we quickly learned that certain classes would respond differently to the same joke depending on their graduation year.

This was easiest to see in Coney Island Baby, where we always have one person say something—typically a pickup line—after the verse “We all fall for / some girl that dresses neat / some girl that’s got big feet / we meet her on the street…” At first, we had Rich blurt out “Nice shoes!” (The first half of the old standard, “Nice shoes, wanna [have some tea]?”) It was a bit of a disappointment when the Class of 1991 did not appreciate—or appear to understand—the comedic significance here. So at our next stop, the Class of 1976, we decided to take the gloves off and have Rich switch to the more obvious “You’re not a cop, are you?” Judging by the fact that not a single person laughed, this, too, was not ideal. Eventually we opted for the family-friendly “Did I mention I go to law school?” This, to our dismay, was pure gold.

When we reached the oldest class, however—the Class of 1956—we realized that our audience was facing a different problem: the utter inability to understand what is going on. The first sign came in between our two songs, when Rich was explaining that we wished we could stick around but that we had to go to other classes... plus we only knew two songs. About thirty seconds after the laughter died down, pretty much in some dead space, a certain gentleman of a certain age shot his glass up in the air and yelled “Bon soir!” Like with real gusto.

(In case you are wondering if this was, in fact, appropriate, I can assure you that (A) no one else was toasting, (B) or speaking French, and (C) it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Okay, I’m lying about the 3 o’clock part, but you have to admit this was incomprehensible.)

The second sign came when, after I finished singing La Bamba—which I sing in Spanish—Senator Arlen Specter ’56 approached me and asked me where I got my “excellent Caribbean rhythm.” Then he asked Dan who his "barber" was. Then he explained that when he was in law school, he was part of a men's singing group called "the Oversextette." Then he offered all of us jobs on the Judiciary Committee. He was pretty much all over the place.

The Iraq War Has Killed Over 650,000 Iraqis

...according to this latest study published by the British medical journal The Lancet. Not only that, the article also shows that Iraqi mortality rates have actually increased at every step of the conflict. The American death toll isn't getting any smaller, either. What a disaster.

It's the War on Drugs, Stupid

In college, I took a course with George Borjas, a professor at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government. Borjas is a controversial conservative economist who focuses on immigration issues. A Cuban immigrant himself, Borjas has been widely criticized for arguing that immigration is hurting the U.S. economy, particularly by decreasing wages and job opportunities for low-skilled Americans. I knew all of this before taking his class, but (A) he was the only economist at Harvard who taught a whole class on immigration (sound familiar?) and (B) I was on an "open mind" kick at the time that was highly overrated.

In the end, I thought Borjas' class was fair, and I actually grew to like the guy personally. I always suspected that he was a bit of a showhorse, however, picking topics and reaching conclusions that were guaranteed to draw media attention.

I can now make up my mind: in mid-September Borjas released this paper arguing that immigrants not only take away jobs and decrease the wages of African-Americans, but that by increasing black unemployment rates, they indirectly lead to higher rates of black incarceration. Borjas does this by tracking employment, wage, and incarceration data from 1960 to 2000.

(Good media strategy, George: argue that the fastest growing demographic group in the country is actually putting the second-largest minority group in the country in jail. You win the Shiny Happy People Award for Neighborhood Relations.)

Problem? I'll leave the economic critique to the economists, but I'll put on my law student hat to point out that Borjas in no way accounts for the drastic changes in federal drug laws in that same time period. This is a glaring mistake, as that period included both the 1971 declaration of the War on Drugs by Richard Nixon, and the 1988 founding of the Office of National Drug Control Policy, home of the super-coolly-named "Drug Czar." Borjas does account for the number of cocaine busts carried out by the DEA in 1980-2000 by creating a so-called "crack index"--no joke--but even he admits that does not account for other aspects of "the criminal-justice response to the crack problem."

Overall, I have to say that I'm very weary of articles that exploit the tension in relations between Hispanics and African-Americans. The New York Times released figures last Sunday showing that Hispanics and African-Americans together comprise 35.8% of the U.S. population (follow this link and click on the infographic; you'll note that Hispanics clock in at an incredible 20.5%). With so many shared socioeconomic interests, if Hispanics and blacks work together, this nation could be due for a major progressive revival come 15 or 20 years, when larger portions of the Hispanic population attain citizenship and/or reach voting age. This will not happen, however, if Hispanics are cast as a direct threat to the black community, something that Mr. Borjas and his colleagues have willfully or negligently accomplished.

Sad but true

I don't know where Tom got this, but it is brilliant. I had to stare at it for a while, but it is all true. Correct me if I'm wrong, guys.

This also falls nicely within this subject heading, and is particularly a propos given my recent Kim Jong-il kick. Check the date, then cry.

We Just Want to Make Sure You're "Safe"

Today, I went with some students from the prosecution externship to visit the United States Coast Guard Academy. It was a great day trip: we had a long talk with the “Coastie” lawyers about their jobs, took a guided tour of several boats, and ate at the officers’ mess hall. Tastiest (and only) lobster cheddar melt sandwich I’ve ever had.

The best part of the trip, though, came when we were talking to the enlisted man who led the tour of the boats. Since we’re always talking in class about probable cause—-exactly what the police need to know to perform a search—-one of our classmates asked what legal standard the Coast Guard had to meet in order to be able to stop a ship and search it.

Without missing a beat, the guy said, “Oh, no, we don’t have to worry about that. Because while we need probable cause to search a ship, we always have the right to board a ship to perform a ‘safety’ inspection.” He actually put “safety” in air quotes. All the students laughed and the lawyers just kind of looked at their feet. I’m pretty sure he will not be talking to any more law students anytime soon.

Reflections on Kim Jong-il, Global Thermonuclear War

Secretive, all-powerful, and completely fucking crazy, Kim Jong-il makes the rest of the axis of evil look like the Haley Joel Osment fan club. Example? Kim Jong-il likes movies. So he kidnaps his favorite movie director and his wife, smuggles them into North Korea, and has them make him movies. Kim Jong-il also likes pizza. So he flies out several elite Italian chefs...and their ovens...and has them make him pizza. In the middle of a famine. Kim Jong-il also likes NBA basketball. You get the picture? (Run while you can, Shaquille.) Further thoughts on the fourth horseman:

1. Will this man be directly responsible for my death?

2. Where can I get a suit like this?

3. Assuming KJI does indeed kill me--and I'm not the only one--something tells me this will not phase him. "Fifteen million? Right. Who wants to play basketball?"

4. How do I get hair like this?*

5. Genocide and cult of personality aside, can you imagine a day in this dude's life? Hmm... wake up, take a bath in Honey Nut Cheerios, have hair pulled, threaten to deploy tactical nuclear device, play with pet orangutan and Komodo dragon, etc.

6. Given that this guy is clearly out of his mind, though, it's possible that he is just terribly misunderstood. Like, he wants to take over the world, but only so that he can throw a really sweet pizza party.

7. I don’t care if Mark Foley is eating congressional pages, this is pretty much the story we should be watching.

8. I would strongly prefer not to die.

* Answer: You pull it. Five minutes every morning. Christopher Walken famously said so in this Playboy interview.

Go See Eurydice

I went to see the Yale Rep's production of Eurydice tonight. It was stunning, and you need to go see it before it closes on October 14th. I could drown it in superlatives like the New York Times did here and here, but instead I'll just say one thing.

Beyond being funny, poignant, and beautifully designed, the play was full of these moments and gestures that were so different, so new, that you couldn't help but be swallowed up by them. The way that Eurydice's father makes her a house out of a single, long thread, or the way people in Hades forget how to read (or write, or speak) and try to stand on letters to read them--it was like watching Miyazaki, or reading that part in Life of Pi where the kid lands on the seaweed island. I loved it.

The Llama Salutes

George W. Bush. And Jesus. The press release is pretty good, too.

It is only a matter of time

First this, then they they will acquire speech, monopolize all sources of potable water, make an alliance with the computers, and take over the world.

NB: Apologies to those who have seen this before. The Llama admits he is kind of intoxicated by this video.

The Case Against Slate

Like everyone else, I started out loving Slate. It had interesting, offbeat articles, provided insightful news coverage, and also had "The Explainer," a neat section where this guy answers all your most pressing questions, from "What is that spray that soccer players get sprayed on them when they get injured?" to "How many cellphones can fit in one rear end?"

As I read more, however, I noticed that Slate has a nasty habit of publishing vicious criticism of the pop culture icon du jour. Not your standard What-the-hell-happened-to-Michael-Jackson pieces, but rather stuff like this story on Zach Braff, Scrubs star and director of Garden State, and more recently, The Last Kiss. Thesis? That Zach Braff is a talentless hack whose movies (TV shows/writing/stuff-he-does) do not represent his (our?) generation. "Never has the voice of a generation had so little of substance to say." Okaaay.

The piece that really got me though, was this bizarrely emphatic character assassination of... Harry Potter.

I may have only read the first three Harry Potter books... in Spanish... but apparently I missed the fact that Harry is actually a "glory hog who unfairly receives credit for the accomplishments of others and who skates through school by taking advantage of his inherited wealth and his establishment connections."

I have never met you, Chris Suellentrop, but you appear to be an unholy combination of Karl Marx, the Grinch, and my freshman year expository writing teacher. Why you gotta hate like that, Chris? Isn’t the kid (A) an orphan with (B) a horribly disfiguring facial scar that (C) glows? Oh wait, you knew about that whole orphan part. ("Did your mom love you? Good, maybe you deserve to be a hero, too.") The Llama orders you to get out of your basement library carrel and get some sunlight, homes.

Who’s next, Nancy Reagan? Or better yet, how about kittens?

Post-script to Mr. Suellentrop: Lest the Llama not practice what he preaches, also know that the Llama loves you for who you are, and you should only get that gym membership if you really want to, don’t worry about me, really.

Here goes

Well aware that this may end up as another poorly tended and attended blog (see Westlaw Ninja, supra), I hereby christen a new... blog. Truth and justice and, like, other stuff, will be dispensed freely.

Yours,
The Llama