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.