I'm planning on doing a photo-and-video post about my trip to the highlands, but haven't had enough time at a computer to do it yet. In the meantime, two pieces of goodness, courtesy of Dan and Spunia:
(1) Remember stop-motion animation? This is stop-motion music.
(2) This is how law professors actually grade your exams.
(3) Since I hate leaving anything at just two, please take another moment to look at the expression on the woman's face below.
Cheers,
The Llama
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
You may not realize it
...but this is the largest sheep you have ever seen. It is entirely possible that there is a large wolf under there.
Should you doubt what I am telling you, take a good long look at (A) the expression on the woman's face to the left, and (B) how tall said ovine is in relation to the humans around it.
Ah, the wonders of Andean livestock markets.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
From Huancayo to the Cunas Valley
Another incredible day, this time with sheep. The objective this morning was to begin to interview former sheepherders, their family members, and fellow community members. We set off early for Usibamba, a small town accessible by a 2 hour drive via dirt road.
The road to Usibamba crawls along the bottom of the Cunas Valley, just a few meters above the Mantaro River. The settlements run right up to the road; in the short drive you can easily see people doing their daily harvesting, planting, and… herding of sheep! Another curious occupation is “fixing road.” The road isn’t maintained by any government authority. Instead, individual people, usually young boys, spend their days filling in potholes or mysteriously, and probably highly ineffectively, digging ditches at the side of the road. They make their money from folks who use the road and hand them some spare change along the way. The real smart ones, though, realize that generosity can only go so far: these guys actually block the road with rocks and charge a tariff to drivers-by.
I am aware that I am occasionally a little generous with the superlatives, but this was the most beautiful drive I have taken in years. We had to stop our car about twenty times because Bob-—the filmmaker I am assisting-—or I wanted to take pictures. And I took some good ones: the rapids pulsing through the valley, a young boy tending to a flock of 10 or 15 furry ones, the green mountains rising up on all sides. Other sights included several Indiana Jones-style basket-on-a-rope-and-pulley chair lifts across the river, and lots of close ups of confused or indifferent livestock.
Right before you reach Usibamba, the road rises out of the valley—-which winds a sharp right, then left-—and meets the valley again a few kilometers down the road. This time, though, instead of entering the valley at its mouth, the road plunges into the valley from its bank. You take one turn, and suddenly the valley opens up before and below you, and you can see for miles and miles.
It is hard to describe what I saw, but I’ll try. Some years ago I spent a summer traveling through Bolivia, writing new chapters for the Let’s Go travel guide series. One night, when I was in the Jesuit missions—-a series of 10 to 15 little villages that start east of Santa Cruz and end just west of the border with Brazil—-I had the chance to check my email, something I hadn’t been able to do in weeks. Mind you, this was the year 2000, and perhaps more importantly, this was deep rural Bolivia, so checking my email was (a) an unexpected surprise, and (b) exorbitantly expensive. Since I didn’t have much money, I had to read through 15 or 20 select emails in about 10 minutes. One email was from my friend Emily, who was working in an orphanage in Africa. As I skimmed it, the part that jumped out at me was her description of the vastness and beauty of the African countryside. She wrote:
"The sky is here. I know that sounds strange, but I can’t find better words to describe it."
The sky is here. For weeks I repeated the phrase in my head, marveling at how these four words, so simple and seemingly awkward, managed to convey exactly what Emily saw in Africa.*
Well, I can tell you that when I made that final turn back into the Cunas Valley, the sky was there. And so was the sun, and the green, and the river. There are moments—-few and far between for people like me who spend their lives in books and buildings—-when you appreciate the bigness of life and the world swallows you up and says “Look at me!” This was one of those times.
So people, please come to the Cunas Valley.
When we arrived in Usibamba we quickly met a man who had traveled several times to the U.S. as a shepherd. His friends got curious about the professorial types and gringos hanging out with their buddy, and soon we had a small crowd of men surrounding us in the central plaza (it was the weekly market day, which meant that there were lots of people in town)…every single one of the men was a herder. The herders I interviewed were stoic, and I wouldn’t say proud, but conspicuously Americanized individuals. You could tell a herder in a crowd by his cowboy hat, or his bright red “Blazers” baseball cap—and his button down shirt, big belt buckle, and Carhart-style working boots.
The men spoke of their loneliness in the hills, and how much they missed their families when they were away. They also spoke of their eagerness to return to the United States and continue working as sheepherders. Remember, these guys are paid $750 per month for working 24 hours a day, seven days a week, live in tents with shovels instead of toilets, and often don’t have a day off for years at a time--and the only thing they can think of is how they can come back.
I want to be clear: this does not mean that they aren’t exploited. I don’t care how wide the smile is on a rancher’s face, or how friendly he is to his charges—-no American employer should pay their employees so little; more importantly, no American employer should be able to deport their employees if they are injured or if complain about their conditions—no employer should be able to exert such total control over their employees.
What this does mean is that these men will do anything to move ahead, to provide for themselves and their families—-even submitting themselves to the conditions that greet them in the states. I think that’s pretty impressive.
My apologies for an entry that is much more preachy than usual, but I am seeing a lot and it is making me think just as much.
Tomorrow we’ll check out one or two more towns, then return to Usibamba for a personal tour of the community president’s sheep and cattle ranch. Should be good stuff.
The road to Usibamba crawls along the bottom of the Cunas Valley, just a few meters above the Mantaro River. The settlements run right up to the road; in the short drive you can easily see people doing their daily harvesting, planting, and… herding of sheep! Another curious occupation is “fixing road.” The road isn’t maintained by any government authority. Instead, individual people, usually young boys, spend their days filling in potholes or mysteriously, and probably highly ineffectively, digging ditches at the side of the road. They make their money from folks who use the road and hand them some spare change along the way. The real smart ones, though, realize that generosity can only go so far: these guys actually block the road with rocks and charge a tariff to drivers-by.
I am aware that I am occasionally a little generous with the superlatives, but this was the most beautiful drive I have taken in years. We had to stop our car about twenty times because Bob-—the filmmaker I am assisting-—or I wanted to take pictures. And I took some good ones: the rapids pulsing through the valley, a young boy tending to a flock of 10 or 15 furry ones, the green mountains rising up on all sides. Other sights included several Indiana Jones-style basket-on-a-rope-and-pulley chair lifts across the river, and lots of close ups of confused or indifferent livestock.
Right before you reach Usibamba, the road rises out of the valley—-which winds a sharp right, then left-—and meets the valley again a few kilometers down the road. This time, though, instead of entering the valley at its mouth, the road plunges into the valley from its bank. You take one turn, and suddenly the valley opens up before and below you, and you can see for miles and miles.
It is hard to describe what I saw, but I’ll try. Some years ago I spent a summer traveling through Bolivia, writing new chapters for the Let’s Go travel guide series. One night, when I was in the Jesuit missions—-a series of 10 to 15 little villages that start east of Santa Cruz and end just west of the border with Brazil—-I had the chance to check my email, something I hadn’t been able to do in weeks. Mind you, this was the year 2000, and perhaps more importantly, this was deep rural Bolivia, so checking my email was (a) an unexpected surprise, and (b) exorbitantly expensive. Since I didn’t have much money, I had to read through 15 or 20 select emails in about 10 minutes. One email was from my friend Emily, who was working in an orphanage in Africa. As I skimmed it, the part that jumped out at me was her description of the vastness and beauty of the African countryside. She wrote:
"The sky is here. I know that sounds strange, but I can’t find better words to describe it."
The sky is here. For weeks I repeated the phrase in my head, marveling at how these four words, so simple and seemingly awkward, managed to convey exactly what Emily saw in Africa.*
Well, I can tell you that when I made that final turn back into the Cunas Valley, the sky was there. And so was the sun, and the green, and the river. There are moments—-few and far between for people like me who spend their lives in books and buildings—-when you appreciate the bigness of life and the world swallows you up and says “Look at me!” This was one of those times.
So people, please come to the Cunas Valley.
When we arrived in Usibamba we quickly met a man who had traveled several times to the U.S. as a shepherd. His friends got curious about the professorial types and gringos hanging out with their buddy, and soon we had a small crowd of men surrounding us in the central plaza (it was the weekly market day, which meant that there were lots of people in town)…every single one of the men was a herder. The herders I interviewed were stoic, and I wouldn’t say proud, but conspicuously Americanized individuals. You could tell a herder in a crowd by his cowboy hat, or his bright red “Blazers” baseball cap—and his button down shirt, big belt buckle, and Carhart-style working boots.
The men spoke of their loneliness in the hills, and how much they missed their families when they were away. They also spoke of their eagerness to return to the United States and continue working as sheepherders. Remember, these guys are paid $750 per month for working 24 hours a day, seven days a week, live in tents with shovels instead of toilets, and often don’t have a day off for years at a time--and the only thing they can think of is how they can come back.
I want to be clear: this does not mean that they aren’t exploited. I don’t care how wide the smile is on a rancher’s face, or how friendly he is to his charges—-no American employer should pay their employees so little; more importantly, no American employer should be able to deport their employees if they are injured or if complain about their conditions—no employer should be able to exert such total control over their employees.
What this does mean is that these men will do anything to move ahead, to provide for themselves and their families—-even submitting themselves to the conditions that greet them in the states. I think that’s pretty impressive.
My apologies for an entry that is much more preachy than usual, but I am seeing a lot and it is making me think just as much.
Tomorrow we’ll check out one or two more towns, then return to Usibamba for a personal tour of the community president’s sheep and cattle ranch. Should be good stuff.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
From Lima to Huancayo
I had an incredible day today. Woke up bright and early and left for Huancayo at 7:30 in the morning. Once you leave Lima, the route is remarkable. Finished in 1909 and designed by an American engineer [whose name I will surreptitiously insert here when I have better email access], the Lima-Huancayo road climbs from sea level to a literally breathtaking 4,800 meters above sea level. (Halfway up Mt. Everest for those of you keeping track!) And it isn’t a straight shot, either—the road winds through mountains and valleys the whole way there.
The surroundings and accompanying flora change dramatically with the altitude—and with industry. The outskirts of Lima is overcast desert; then you wind through some narrow green valleys—and I mean bright, Sound of Music green—with the mountains crowding in all around you. Bordering the rivers are parcels of land divided off by old stone fences; on the sides of hills—literally planted on 45 degree slopes—are potatoes and other similarly hardy crops. I would not want to be around for the harvest.
The road keeps on climbing—all the way to Tilcomayo, the highest spot on the road, clocking in at somewhere above 4,800 meters (15,000+ feet by my back of the envelope calculation). It is cold in Tilcomayo, and there are about three signs that tell you the altitude. I didn’t see much else, though I did, of course, take a picture of myself in front of the signs.
Beyond this area, you start getting into mining country. The vegetation—which fell away in the rise to Tilcomayo—returns but then thins again, not because of the altitude, but because of the acid rain and toxic emissions from local mining operations. We drove through La Oroya, which I was told was one of the ten most polluted cities in the world. I believe it. La Oroya was, 40 or 50 years ago, a major mining center. Today, the mines still produce, but the town looks like an Andean version of the London streets in Children of Men. A single smokestack—once the world’s tallest—rises above the crowded town. Let me repeat myself: the hills are literally stripped down to an ugly, unnaturally bright light grey for several kilometers around. Once you get past that, though, the valley opens up to reveal green again, and pastures.
We had lunch with one of our contacts in Jauja (guinea pig!). Then we walked through the market, where, should you so desire, you could stock up on: pork, chicken, beef, frog, snail, wheat, oats, dried potatoes, very dried potatoes, a huge mound of flour that looked liked cocaine, quinua, hats, gloves, slingshots, deodorant, fake soccer jerseys, fresh fibers for your broom, a whole lot of soup, rings, watches, earrings, and an unidentified syrupy substance you could use to treat “fungus, and bad smells.” The seller of this last item conveniently had a little panorama he put together of pictures from some medical textbook of the most bizarre, horrific, and bizarrely horrific dermatological ailments known to science circa 1970. (If you have one of these ailments, let me know, I’ll hook you up.)
The best part of the day had nothing to do with any of this, though; after lunch we were lucky enough to catch the town’s second-largest annual celebration. It is hard to describe, really, but I’ll do my best to make an analogy. Picture New Orleans, Bourbon Street on Mardis Gras. Turn Bourbon Street into a single loop. Knock down the (frankly highly tackified) French colonial buildings and erect wooden platforms on all sides with two levels: the first for beer drinking on benches, the second for beer drinking on benches, up one level. And also watching.
Watch what? Okay, so take away the floats, and the cars, and instead of dressing people as whatever people dress as for Mardi Gras, wizards, Rexes, crazy bare-chested lady, and instead dress them up in elaborate masks and colonial costumes. And make people dance instead of throw beads. Every dancer has a specific role: some play the Spanish colonizers—with one well-dressed gent playing the part of “the prince”—others play the indigenous and mestizos they ruled over. Still others represent people from neighboring countries—the Bolivian, the Argentine, or gaucho.
All of this is exceedingly hard to communicate without pictures, so as soon as I can put those online I certainly will. But I do want to discuss one very interesting thing I noticed at the festival. By and large, the men dressed up as men, and the women dressed up as women; a few men, however, actually…well, went in drag. And it wasn’t good Is-that-a-dude-or-a-chick drag; I mean pretty obvious, I’m-six-feet-tall-and/or-have-heavy-stubble cross-dressing. These folks were dancing along with everyone else, and though people giggled at the more flamboyant ones, no one—not a person—yelled out any sort of harassing or hateful remarks. Remember, this is a small, 20,000 person town in the middle of the central Peruvian highlands.
I asked an anthropologist I’m traveling with what was going on. He explained, very matter of factly, that this is the only outlet through which many gay or transgendered men can openly express themselves. He pointed out a very drunk man who was dressed as a pony-tailed campesina, puffy skirts and all. “This man is a mechanic. During the rest of the year, he is a serious and dedicated worker, a married man.” He said one or two things insinuating the gentleman was either bi- or homosexual. Then he said, “Instead of renouncing his family, or going to see a psychotherapist, as you do in the United States, he spends the four or five days of this festival dressed as a woman.” I’m not sure how healthy that is for one’s sexual identity, but it seemed to me that the cross-dressing men were quite happy to be a part of it.
Generally, the anthropologist described these festivals as an opportunity for “communal catharsis”—an opportunity not just to resolve sexual frustrations or simply party, but an opportunity for regular work and life schedules to stop, and the normal strictures of social life to relax. There was something to what he said, too—I saw it in the way people wore masks to conceal their identities—and they kept them on, too. All of this will be clearer once I put up pictures.
You may have noticed there was no talk of sheepherders so far; that will start tomorrow with two trips to smaller villages.
The surroundings and accompanying flora change dramatically with the altitude—and with industry. The outskirts of Lima is overcast desert; then you wind through some narrow green valleys—and I mean bright, Sound of Music green—with the mountains crowding in all around you. Bordering the rivers are parcels of land divided off by old stone fences; on the sides of hills—literally planted on 45 degree slopes—are potatoes and other similarly hardy crops. I would not want to be around for the harvest.
The road keeps on climbing—all the way to Tilcomayo, the highest spot on the road, clocking in at somewhere above 4,800 meters (15,000+ feet by my back of the envelope calculation). It is cold in Tilcomayo, and there are about three signs that tell you the altitude. I didn’t see much else, though I did, of course, take a picture of myself in front of the signs.
Beyond this area, you start getting into mining country. The vegetation—which fell away in the rise to Tilcomayo—returns but then thins again, not because of the altitude, but because of the acid rain and toxic emissions from local mining operations. We drove through La Oroya, which I was told was one of the ten most polluted cities in the world. I believe it. La Oroya was, 40 or 50 years ago, a major mining center. Today, the mines still produce, but the town looks like an Andean version of the London streets in Children of Men. A single smokestack—once the world’s tallest—rises above the crowded town. Let me repeat myself: the hills are literally stripped down to an ugly, unnaturally bright light grey for several kilometers around. Once you get past that, though, the valley opens up to reveal green again, and pastures.
We had lunch with one of our contacts in Jauja (guinea pig!). Then we walked through the market, where, should you so desire, you could stock up on: pork, chicken, beef, frog, snail, wheat, oats, dried potatoes, very dried potatoes, a huge mound of flour that looked liked cocaine, quinua, hats, gloves, slingshots, deodorant, fake soccer jerseys, fresh fibers for your broom, a whole lot of soup, rings, watches, earrings, and an unidentified syrupy substance you could use to treat “fungus, and bad smells.” The seller of this last item conveniently had a little panorama he put together of pictures from some medical textbook of the most bizarre, horrific, and bizarrely horrific dermatological ailments known to science circa 1970. (If you have one of these ailments, let me know, I’ll hook you up.)
The best part of the day had nothing to do with any of this, though; after lunch we were lucky enough to catch the town’s second-largest annual celebration. It is hard to describe, really, but I’ll do my best to make an analogy. Picture New Orleans, Bourbon Street on Mardis Gras. Turn Bourbon Street into a single loop. Knock down the (frankly highly tackified) French colonial buildings and erect wooden platforms on all sides with two levels: the first for beer drinking on benches, the second for beer drinking on benches, up one level. And also watching.
Watch what? Okay, so take away the floats, and the cars, and instead of dressing people as whatever people dress as for Mardi Gras, wizards, Rexes, crazy bare-chested lady, and instead dress them up in elaborate masks and colonial costumes. And make people dance instead of throw beads. Every dancer has a specific role: some play the Spanish colonizers—with one well-dressed gent playing the part of “the prince”—others play the indigenous and mestizos they ruled over. Still others represent people from neighboring countries—the Bolivian, the Argentine, or gaucho.
All of this is exceedingly hard to communicate without pictures, so as soon as I can put those online I certainly will. But I do want to discuss one very interesting thing I noticed at the festival. By and large, the men dressed up as men, and the women dressed up as women; a few men, however, actually…well, went in drag. And it wasn’t good Is-that-a-dude-or-a-chick drag; I mean pretty obvious, I’m-six-feet-tall-and/or-have-heavy-stubble cross-dressing. These folks were dancing along with everyone else, and though people giggled at the more flamboyant ones, no one—not a person—yelled out any sort of harassing or hateful remarks. Remember, this is a small, 20,000 person town in the middle of the central Peruvian highlands.
I asked an anthropologist I’m traveling with what was going on. He explained, very matter of factly, that this is the only outlet through which many gay or transgendered men can openly express themselves. He pointed out a very drunk man who was dressed as a pony-tailed campesina, puffy skirts and all. “This man is a mechanic. During the rest of the year, he is a serious and dedicated worker, a married man.” He said one or two things insinuating the gentleman was either bi- or homosexual. Then he said, “Instead of renouncing his family, or going to see a psychotherapist, as you do in the United States, he spends the four or five days of this festival dressed as a woman.” I’m not sure how healthy that is for one’s sexual identity, but it seemed to me that the cross-dressing men were quite happy to be a part of it.
Generally, the anthropologist described these festivals as an opportunity for “communal catharsis”—an opportunity not just to resolve sexual frustrations or simply party, but an opportunity for regular work and life schedules to stop, and the normal strictures of social life to relax. There was something to what he said, too—I saw it in the way people wore masks to conceal their identities—and they kept them on, too. All of this will be clearer once I put up pictures.
You may have noticed there was no talk of sheepherders so far; that will start tomorrow with two trips to smaller villages.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Peru: Day 3
Hey folks,
Sorry I have not been better about posting. My access to email is limited by (a) the distance of internet cafes, and (b) my inability to locate the "@" symbol on local keyboards. (If you're wondering, Alt-64 is the way to go.)
So far, pretty nice and uneventful time here: I've eaten two servings of Aji de Gallina, watched a couple of good Euro soccer matches on TV, and almost gotten hit by at least three vehicles.* Tomorrow, however, I'll leave for Huancayo--not Junin, plans changed--to begin two or three days of work on a potential documentary on Peruvian sheepherders. I am very excited, and hope I will be able to take at least one or two photos with a friendly camelid or ovid.
More to come soon.
Best,
The Llama
* Crosswalks in Peru, and probably most of South America, are best described as "optional." Years ago, when Bolivia was first implementing crosswalks in its streets, it kicked off the campaign by paying people to dress up as zebras (black and white stripes, get it?) and simply walk back and forth across the crosswalks all day. I am pretty sure that is the first time a zebra has been killed in the Andes.
Sorry I have not been better about posting. My access to email is limited by (a) the distance of internet cafes, and (b) my inability to locate the "@" symbol on local keyboards. (If you're wondering, Alt-64 is the way to go.)
So far, pretty nice and uneventful time here: I've eaten two servings of Aji de Gallina, watched a couple of good Euro soccer matches on TV, and almost gotten hit by at least three vehicles.* Tomorrow, however, I'll leave for Huancayo--not Junin, plans changed--to begin two or three days of work on a potential documentary on Peruvian sheepherders. I am very excited, and hope I will be able to take at least one or two photos with a friendly camelid or ovid.
More to come soon.
Best,
The Llama
* Crosswalks in Peru, and probably most of South America, are best described as "optional." Years ago, when Bolivia was first implementing crosswalks in its streets, it kicked off the campaign by paying people to dress up as zebras (black and white stripes, get it?) and simply walk back and forth across the crosswalks all day. I am pretty sure that is the first time a zebra has been killed in the Andes.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Letter from New Haven
Fresh in from New Haven, this update from my roommate Daniel Mochimbo Kanataka:
So I’m currently trapped in my bedroom. Like R Kelly, if the closet were really big and if I had a gun. A saga in five acts.
Act 1: Mid-December. [The Llama] leaves a giant bag of potatoes that we’d bought for our last balcony bbq in our coat closet, next to his bedroom.
[I dispute this. You're the potato man and you know it, Dan.--Ed.]
Act 2: Holiday Break. The potatoes linger, then rot.
Act 3: Early January. [The Llama] notes that something smells funny is in the coat closet, figures Dan spilled some kind of cleaning fluid. Addresses situation by closing closet door.
Act 4: Yesterday. The unholy stench begins to break through its feeble cage. Dan inquires into the death and disposal of any animals or small children over on [the Llama]’s side of the apartment. [The Llama] tries to figure out what is the source of the pungent fragrance. Fails. Leaves for Peru.
[This is true.]
Act 5: Today. Dan initiates a search of his own. First finds puddle of brown rotten potato juice. Then finds potatoes. Weeps. Cleans. But the smell lingers. So he sets up a fan to air out the closet. But the stench has to go somewhere. So he opens the sliding door to the balcony. Where it’s 21 degrees out. And the whole living room starts to stink. So Dan holes himself up in his bedroom, emerging only to run to the kitchen, grab coffee, and run back.
Such is life man. Rotten potatoes happen. I told you I smelt something in there. Thanks for taking care of that, it's awful nice of you.
So I’m currently trapped in my bedroom. Like R Kelly, if the closet were really big and if I had a gun. A saga in five acts.
Act 1: Mid-December. [The Llama] leaves a giant bag of potatoes that we’d bought for our last balcony bbq in our coat closet, next to his bedroom.
[I dispute this. You're the potato man and you know it, Dan.--Ed.]
Act 2: Holiday Break. The potatoes linger, then rot.
Act 3: Early January. [The Llama] notes that something smells funny is in the coat closet, figures Dan spilled some kind of cleaning fluid. Addresses situation by closing closet door.
Act 4: Yesterday. The unholy stench begins to break through its feeble cage. Dan inquires into the death and disposal of any animals or small children over on [the Llama]’s side of the apartment. [The Llama] tries to figure out what is the source of the pungent fragrance. Fails. Leaves for Peru.
[This is true.]
Act 5: Today. Dan initiates a search of his own. First finds puddle of brown rotten potato juice. Then finds potatoes. Weeps. Cleans. But the smell lingers. So he sets up a fan to air out the closet. But the stench has to go somewhere. So he opens the sliding door to the balcony. Where it’s 21 degrees out. And the whole living room starts to stink. So Dan holes himself up in his bedroom, emerging only to run to the kitchen, grab coffee, and run back.
Such is life man. Rotten potatoes happen. I told you I smelt something in there. Thanks for taking care of that, it's awful nice of you.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
In about 40 minutes...
...I will board a shuttle for John F. Kennedy airport. From there, I will be taken to San Salvador, El Salvador. From there I will be taken to Lima, Peru. At Lima, I will sleep, and eat Aji de Gallina. Then, I will travel to Junin. Junin sits at 4,105 meters above sea level. I will be ill in Junin. From Junin, I will rent a vehicle and film sheep and the people that herd them. Then, I will come back to Lima, where I will be less ill and continue to eat Aji de Gallina. Then, I will board a plane and come back to the United States of America.
That is the schedule folks. Long story short: I'm leaving for Peru for two weeks and will try my darndest to blog about eating/relaxing/and documentary-filming no matter where I roam. Please wish me luck.
FYI: If you're wondering why I'm all mixed up with Peruvian sheepherders, please read this blindingly brilliant article by this guy I've never heard of.
That is the schedule folks. Long story short: I'm leaving for Peru for two weeks and will try my darndest to blog about eating/relaxing/and documentary-filming no matter where I roam. Please wish me luck.
FYI: If you're wondering why I'm all mixed up with Peruvian sheepherders, please read this blindingly brilliant article by this guy I've never heard of.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
I [Heart] Falcons
Have you ever wanted a pet?
I think falconry is cool. Really, really cool. Little creepy... still cool.
In fact, I would like a pet falcon for Christmas. I will name him Arcteropyx, or, if he doesn't like that, Alfred. Alfred the Falcon. Alfie for short.
I would treat Alfie very well. I would take him for walks, or flies, often. He would have a companion, and I would have a steady supply of squirrels, possums, and smaller falcons that Alfie did not like. I would take him many places, but I would avoid certain locations for obvious reasons.
Alfie the Falcon
Wings arched strong and majestic
Put Howard down now
I feel that, as the owner of a falcon, I would better understand great figures like Genghis Khan and Napoleon, who also owned falcons, and were crazy as shit.
"Hey Genghis."
"Greetings."
"How is Artok the Destroyer?"
"Well. Yesterday he caught a small antelope."
"Sounds tasty."
"Yes, better than child-from-neighboring-village."
"..."
"Old habits are hard to break, friend."
"Yes, they are."
With Alfie, I would instantly be That Guy That Owns a Falcon. People would also assume I play Dungeons and Dragons, and wear a cloak. But this would not be true. I would just own a falcon, a small raptor designed by God to soar, kill, and look wicked in my garage.
This I swear: A falcon will be had by me.
I think falconry is cool. Really, really cool. Little creepy... still cool.In fact, I would like a pet falcon for Christmas. I will name him Arcteropyx, or, if he doesn't like that, Alfred. Alfred the Falcon. Alfie for short.
I would treat Alfie very well. I would take him for walks, or flies, often. He would have a companion, and I would have a steady supply of squirrels, possums, and smaller falcons that Alfie did not like. I would take him many places, but I would avoid certain locations for obvious reasons.
Alfie the Falcon
Wings arched strong and majestic
Put Howard down now
I feel that, as the owner of a falcon, I would better understand great figures like Genghis Khan and Napoleon, who also owned falcons, and were crazy as shit.
"Hey Genghis."
"Greetings."
"How is Artok the Destroyer?"
"Well. Yesterday he caught a small antelope."
"Sounds tasty."
"Yes, better than child-from-neighboring-village."
"..."
"Old habits are hard to break, friend."
"Yes, they are."
With Alfie, I would instantly be That Guy That Owns a Falcon. People would also assume I play Dungeons and Dragons, and wear a cloak. But this would not be true. I would just own a falcon, a small raptor designed by God to soar, kill, and look wicked in my garage.
This I swear: A falcon will be had by me.
Pollsters Beware
Obama announced he was creating an exploratory committee yesterday. Already I have read about twenty different blogs/news articles that say he will announce in Springfield, Illinois--Abraham Lincoln's hometown--in order to cash in on the symbolism, and on the fact that Lincoln was also a very "inexperienced" candidate, but hey, look what he did.
I like Obama and Edwards, and I'll write about why in later posts. For now, let me excerpt the smartest thing I've read about the blizzard of '08 polls that is already hitting the country:
...[H]ere are some names and numbers to remember from March 2002: Al Gore (26 percent), Hillary Clinton (19 percent), Tom Daschle (8 percent), Joe Lieberman (7 percent), Dick Gephardt (7 percent), John Kerry (6 percent), John Edwards (2 percent) and Howard Dean (1 percent.)
That's right, a little under a year and a half before the generals, the eventual presidential nominee, vice presidential nomineee, and almost-presidential nominee were in sixth, seventh, and eighth places, respectively.
I like Obama and Edwards, and I'll write about why in later posts. For now, let me excerpt the smartest thing I've read about the blizzard of '08 polls that is already hitting the country:
...[H]ere are some names and numbers to remember from March 2002: Al Gore (26 percent), Hillary Clinton (19 percent), Tom Daschle (8 percent), Joe Lieberman (7 percent), Dick Gephardt (7 percent), John Kerry (6 percent), John Edwards (2 percent) and Howard Dean (1 percent.)
That's right, a little under a year and a half before the generals, the eventual presidential nominee, vice presidential nomineee, and almost-presidential nominee were in sixth, seventh, and eighth places, respectively.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Latin American Folk Music: Victor Jara
For Martin Luther King Day, I thought it would be appropriate to dedicate the second post in the Latin American folk music series to Victor Jara, the most ardently progressive and politically active of the artists I will profile.
2. Victor Jara - Te Recuerdo Amanda
Victor Jara's story is as tragic as it is inspiring. Victor was born rural Chile to a family of poor peasants. His father, Manuel, was an alcoholic and brutally abused his mother, Amanda. Manuel left the house in search of work when Victor was young, and in the years when Manuel was absent, Victor enjoyed a relatively happy life and learned to sing and play guitar under the instruction of his mother. Amanda died when Victor was 15.
After pursuing a meandering path through the seminary, and then the army, Victor finally found his calling in the arts, returning to his hometown of Loquen to study theatre performance and direction. During this time, he also developed his music and in doing so befriended Violeta Parra, a budding folk singer and artist in her own right (who in fact wrote Gracias a la Vida, the song Mercedes Sosa can be seen performing in my last post) and the owner of a local cafe where Victor found work.
Victor released his first self-titled album in 1966, and soon became one of the pillars of the Chilean Nueva Canción movement--music characterized by its blend of folk and rock, and, most importantly, its politically progressive lyrics. Victor was a staunch supporter of Salvador Allende, and often gave concerts in support of Allende and his Popular Union party. Jara was also quite prolific, putting out one album in every one of his eight years as a musician.
Victor's fortunes reversed with the Augusto Pinochet's 1973 military coup, an action that was backed, if not explicitly supported, by the CIA and the Nixon Administration. Victor was one of the first individuals rounded up by government soldiers and was detained, along with many other students and political activists, in the Estadio Chile (a soccer stadium). He was publicly beaten and tortured; at one point, his captors broke both of his hands and taunted him to play them a song on the guitar. Defiant, he sang a protest song instead. Soon after he was shot, killed, and buried in a mass grave.
Victor Jara's music and legacy has lived on, and today he to a powerful cultural figure to many Latin Americans, particularly in Chile. Much of the credit is due to his widow, Joan Jara, who was able to smuggle his recordings out of the country after his death, and who later published a biography of her husband.
Sadly, Victor's music is hard to get in the United States. Many of his albums are unavailable, even on Amazon, and I'm unfamiliar with those that are. Thank God for YouTube:
The song Victor is singing is Te Recuerdo Amanda. It is about Victor's mother, Amanda. Every day, no matter how hard it was raining, or how far it was, Amanda would run to the factory where her husband worked to visit him for just five minutes--the length of his workbreak. The song is about how happy she looked walking back, the rain in her hair.
Te recuerdo Amanda
la calle mojada
corriendo a la fábrica
donde trabajaba Manuel.
La sonrisa ancha
la lluvia en el pelo
no importaba nada
ibas a encontrarte con él
con él, con él, con él
son cinco minutos
la vida es eterna
en cinco minutos
suena la sirena
de vuelta al trabajo
y tú caminando
lo iluminas todo
los cinco minutos
te hacen florecer.
I remember you, Amanda
the wet street
running to the factory
where Manuel worked
A broad smile
the rain in your hair
nothing else mattered
you were going to be with him
with him, with him, with him
It's five minutes
life is eternal
in five minutes
The alarm sounds
back to work
and you, walking
you illuminate everything
those five minutes
make you blossom.
What makes the song particularly poignant is that it is not a realistic depiction of Victor's family or childhood. It could be his childhood as he wishes to remember it. It could also be his vision of an ideal that he never had. It ends in a familiar way, though: one day, Manuel goes to work, and never comes back. There is a vague reference in the music to "muchos no volvieron"--many didn't return--which seems to suggest that Manuel--or rather, the Manuel in the song--was somehow killed in a protest or strike.
As for how to get a hold of his recordings, your best shot is Amazon, but the pickings are slim. I have a recording of Te Recuerdo Amanda myself that (A) is much better than the video, and (B) I would be willing to, ahem, share with you if you so desire. Please let me know if you do.
2. Victor Jara - Te Recuerdo Amanda
Victor Jara's story is as tragic as it is inspiring. Victor was born rural Chile to a family of poor peasants. His father, Manuel, was an alcoholic and brutally abused his mother, Amanda. Manuel left the house in search of work when Victor was young, and in the years when Manuel was absent, Victor enjoyed a relatively happy life and learned to sing and play guitar under the instruction of his mother. Amanda died when Victor was 15.
After pursuing a meandering path through the seminary, and then the army, Victor finally found his calling in the arts, returning to his hometown of Loquen to study theatre performance and direction. During this time, he also developed his music and in doing so befriended Violeta Parra, a budding folk singer and artist in her own right (who in fact wrote Gracias a la Vida, the song Mercedes Sosa can be seen performing in my last post) and the owner of a local cafe where Victor found work.
Victor released his first self-titled album in 1966, and soon became one of the pillars of the Chilean Nueva Canción movement--music characterized by its blend of folk and rock, and, most importantly, its politically progressive lyrics. Victor was a staunch supporter of Salvador Allende, and often gave concerts in support of Allende and his Popular Union party. Jara was also quite prolific, putting out one album in every one of his eight years as a musician.
Victor's fortunes reversed with the Augusto Pinochet's 1973 military coup, an action that was backed, if not explicitly supported, by the CIA and the Nixon Administration. Victor was one of the first individuals rounded up by government soldiers and was detained, along with many other students and political activists, in the Estadio Chile (a soccer stadium). He was publicly beaten and tortured; at one point, his captors broke both of his hands and taunted him to play them a song on the guitar. Defiant, he sang a protest song instead. Soon after he was shot, killed, and buried in a mass grave.
Victor Jara's music and legacy has lived on, and today he to a powerful cultural figure to many Latin Americans, particularly in Chile. Much of the credit is due to his widow, Joan Jara, who was able to smuggle his recordings out of the country after his death, and who later published a biography of her husband.
Sadly, Victor's music is hard to get in the United States. Many of his albums are unavailable, even on Amazon, and I'm unfamiliar with those that are. Thank God for YouTube:
The song Victor is singing is Te Recuerdo Amanda. It is about Victor's mother, Amanda. Every day, no matter how hard it was raining, or how far it was, Amanda would run to the factory where her husband worked to visit him for just five minutes--the length of his workbreak. The song is about how happy she looked walking back, the rain in her hair.
Te recuerdo Amanda
la calle mojada
corriendo a la fábrica
donde trabajaba Manuel.
La sonrisa ancha
la lluvia en el pelo
no importaba nada
ibas a encontrarte con él
con él, con él, con él
son cinco minutos
la vida es eterna
en cinco minutos
suena la sirena
de vuelta al trabajo
y tú caminando
lo iluminas todo
los cinco minutos
te hacen florecer.
I remember you, Amanda
the wet street
running to the factory
where Manuel worked
A broad smile
the rain in your hair
nothing else mattered
you were going to be with him
with him, with him, with him
It's five minutes
life is eternal
in five minutes
The alarm sounds
back to work
and you, walking
you illuminate everything
those five minutes
make you blossom.
What makes the song particularly poignant is that it is not a realistic depiction of Victor's family or childhood. It could be his childhood as he wishes to remember it. It could also be his vision of an ideal that he never had. It ends in a familiar way, though: one day, Manuel goes to work, and never comes back. There is a vague reference in the music to "muchos no volvieron"--many didn't return--which seems to suggest that Manuel--or rather, the Manuel in the song--was somehow killed in a protest or strike.
As for how to get a hold of his recordings, your best shot is Amazon, but the pickings are slim. I have a recording of Te Recuerdo Amanda myself that (A) is much better than the video, and (B) I would be willing to, ahem, share with you if you so desire. Please let me know if you do.
Lest we forget
A classmate just sent this out over e-mail. I had forgotten that these were Martin Luther King's final public words:
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
What a brave and beautiful person.
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
What a brave and beautiful person.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Latin American Folk Music: Mercedes Sosa
Most people in the U.S. are introduced to Latin music in clubs and on MTV, typically to some combination of the Macarena and Livin' La Vida Loca. While American-Latin fusion has its virtues--reggaeton can be fun if you don't wake up to it every morning at 4:30am when you are living in Jersey City above the garage of some idiot who owns a small car, huge stereo system, and a single song (Gasolina)--most gringos are entirely unfamiliar with Latin American folk music. This is a real shame. If you're wondering why, please take a moment to actually listen to Gasolina.*
This is the first of five posts that will highlight some of my favorite artists and songs in the Latin American folk tradition. Each post will highlight one artist and one of their songs that is either particularly emblematic of their style, tells a particularly interesting story, or is particularly beautiful--or (I think) all three.
Before continuing, I should say that these individuals are more than famous musicians; they are also, in many cases, cultural icons and political heroes. As in the U.S., many Latin American folk artists came to prominence during the '60s and '70s. In Latin America, however, these protest singers faced ruthless dictators like Augusto Pinochet, Jorge Videla, Hugo Banzer, and Alfredo Stroessner. Two of these artists I will profile--Victor Jara and Jorge Cafrune--were eventually killed by the governments and individuals they fought so hard to oppose.
1. Mercedes Sosa - Alfonsina y el Mar
Mercedes Sosa can be considered the mother of Latin American folk music. Unlike many female Latin pop stars, Sosa is no chirpy waif; hers is a rich and unapologetic alto. When she performs, her gestures and expressions are those of a poet or flamenco dancer. Watch this video of her performing Gracias a la Vida to see what I mean:
There are two things I love about Mercedes Sosa. The first is her conscious cultivation of a pan-Latin identity; instead of identifying as an exclusively--or even primarily--Argentine artist (Sosa is from the Tucuman province of northern Argentina), she has instead done everything possible to appeal to and identify with a broader Latin American audience. (Check out Cancion con Todos for a more explicit example of this.)
More importantly, though, I love the generosity with which she sings; regardless of the subject matter of her songs--and many of them are sad and tragic, as you will hear--there is never a hint of bitterness in her voice. The best example of this is the song I'll recommend, Alfonsina y el Mar, a song written in memory of Alfonsina Storni, a post-modern Argentine poet. Towards the end of her life, Alfonsina suffered a deep depression triggered by the deaths of several friends (including fellow poet Horacio Quiroga) and her own fight with breast cancer. The day before she died, Alfonsina sent this poem to La Nación (available in English here); the following morning, as alluded to in her final stanzas, Alfonsina killed herself by walking into the sea.
The lyrics (here in Spanish, here in English) of Alfonsina y el Mar are about as sad as you can imagine; they both celebrate Alfonsina and weave in references to her final poem. What most performers miss, though, is that the song is also addressed to Alfonsina: the lyrics comfort her, almost like a child, telling her that she will be safe and happy where she lies:
Cinco sirenitas te llevarán
por caminos de algas y de coral
y fosforescentes caballos marinos harán
una ronda a tu lado.
Y los habitantes del agua
van a nadar pronto a tu lado.
Five little mermaids will take you
Along paths of seaweed and coral
And phosphorescent sea horses
Will swim around you
And the creatures of the water
Will soon play at your side.
When Mercedes Sosa sings Alfonsina, it sounds like what it is--a eulogy and a lullabye. It is a song that is hard to forget, particulary when she is singing it.
If you'd like to hear more, this is the album you need to get. Dan's sister got it on my recommendation a while back and I understand she approves. Other great songs on the album include La Maza and Todo Cambia, as well as all of the songs I've mentioned above. If you just want to get Alfonsina y el Mar, go to iTunes and make sure you buy the one that says "Album version." I haven't heard the other ones and can't guarantee you that some cheesehead hasn't turned up the reverb or put some absurd synthesizer loop over it, as my people are occasionally wont to do.
* Gasolina actually rocks; I just think that (A) my appreciation for it has been significantly diminished by my experiences in the Garden State, and that (B) it would nevertheless be the shame for this to be the only--or rather, most emblematic--Latin song you crazy kids are familiar with.
This is the first of five posts that will highlight some of my favorite artists and songs in the Latin American folk tradition. Each post will highlight one artist and one of their songs that is either particularly emblematic of their style, tells a particularly interesting story, or is particularly beautiful--or (I think) all three.
Before continuing, I should say that these individuals are more than famous musicians; they are also, in many cases, cultural icons and political heroes. As in the U.S., many Latin American folk artists came to prominence during the '60s and '70s. In Latin America, however, these protest singers faced ruthless dictators like Augusto Pinochet, Jorge Videla, Hugo Banzer, and Alfredo Stroessner. Two of these artists I will profile--Victor Jara and Jorge Cafrune--were eventually killed by the governments and individuals they fought so hard to oppose.
1. Mercedes Sosa - Alfonsina y el Mar
Mercedes Sosa can be considered the mother of Latin American folk music. Unlike many female Latin pop stars, Sosa is no chirpy waif; hers is a rich and unapologetic alto. When she performs, her gestures and expressions are those of a poet or flamenco dancer. Watch this video of her performing Gracias a la Vida to see what I mean:
There are two things I love about Mercedes Sosa. The first is her conscious cultivation of a pan-Latin identity; instead of identifying as an exclusively--or even primarily--Argentine artist (Sosa is from the Tucuman province of northern Argentina), she has instead done everything possible to appeal to and identify with a broader Latin American audience. (Check out Cancion con Todos for a more explicit example of this.)
More importantly, though, I love the generosity with which she sings; regardless of the subject matter of her songs--and many of them are sad and tragic, as you will hear--there is never a hint of bitterness in her voice. The best example of this is the song I'll recommend, Alfonsina y el Mar, a song written in memory of Alfonsina Storni, a post-modern Argentine poet. Towards the end of her life, Alfonsina suffered a deep depression triggered by the deaths of several friends (including fellow poet Horacio Quiroga) and her own fight with breast cancer. The day before she died, Alfonsina sent this poem to La Nación (available in English here); the following morning, as alluded to in her final stanzas, Alfonsina killed herself by walking into the sea.The lyrics (here in Spanish, here in English) of Alfonsina y el Mar are about as sad as you can imagine; they both celebrate Alfonsina and weave in references to her final poem. What most performers miss, though, is that the song is also addressed to Alfonsina: the lyrics comfort her, almost like a child, telling her that she will be safe and happy where she lies:
Cinco sirenitas te llevarán
por caminos de algas y de coral
y fosforescentes caballos marinos harán
una ronda a tu lado.
Y los habitantes del agua
van a nadar pronto a tu lado.
Five little mermaids will take you
Along paths of seaweed and coral
And phosphorescent sea horses
Will swim around you
And the creatures of the water
Will soon play at your side.
When Mercedes Sosa sings Alfonsina, it sounds like what it is--a eulogy and a lullabye. It is a song that is hard to forget, particulary when she is singing it.
If you'd like to hear more, this is the album you need to get. Dan's sister got it on my recommendation a while back and I understand she approves. Other great songs on the album include La Maza and Todo Cambia, as well as all of the songs I've mentioned above. If you just want to get Alfonsina y el Mar, go to iTunes and make sure you buy the one that says "Album version." I haven't heard the other ones and can't guarantee you that some cheesehead hasn't turned up the reverb or put some absurd synthesizer loop over it, as my people are occasionally wont to do.
* Gasolina actually rocks; I just think that (A) my appreciation for it has been significantly diminished by my experiences in the Garden State, and that (B) it would nevertheless be the shame for this to be the only--or rather, most emblematic--Latin song you crazy kids are familiar with.
Friday, January 12, 2007
***Breaking News***
Mensch, heartbreaker, and Yale Law School bachelor Daniel Joshua Freeman IX has finally been picked up by the html celeb circuit.
Jewcy.com--a sort of Slate for readers of the Hebrew persuasion--has profiled Dan as the initial recipient of its user/reader/hottie of the month club.
The verdict: "Somewhere, Lisa Simpson's touching herself with two of her four fingers."
Affirmed. Oh so affirmed.
Jewcy.com--a sort of Slate for readers of the Hebrew persuasion--has profiled Dan as the initial recipient of its user/reader/hottie of the month club.
The verdict: "Somewhere, Lisa Simpson's touching herself with two of her four fingers."
Affirmed. Oh so affirmed.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Romney's "Reverse-Macaca" Moment
Mitt Romney is a die-hard conservative. Right? Why don't we ask Mitt Romney himself... 12 years ago (when he was running against Ted Kennedy for the Senate). This video posted by Wonkette does just that:
...and reveals Romney to be, er, have been a die-hard supporter of... gay rights, affirmative action and abortion rights. As to the last, Romney helpfully adds, "you will not see me wavering on that."
Riiight.
Wonkette called this Romney's "reverse-Macaca moment."
(Thanks to Emma for the lead.)
FYI: For those of you not following the 2008 horse race that closely, Romney is the Republican governor of Massachusetts and a highly likely candidate for the presidency.
...and reveals Romney to be, er, have been a die-hard supporter of... gay rights, affirmative action and abortion rights. As to the last, Romney helpfully adds, "you will not see me wavering on that."
Riiight.
Wonkette called this Romney's "reverse-Macaca moment."
(Thanks to Emma for the lead.)
FYI: For those of you not following the 2008 horse race that closely, Romney is the Republican governor of Massachusetts and a highly likely candidate for the presidency.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Chicken Little of the Movie Industry; Children of Men and Other Mexican Films
I finally got around to reading last week's New Yorker, and was surprised to read this strangely nostalgic and highly pessimistic piece by David Denby, one of the magazine's two regular film critics (the other is Anthony Lane).Denby predicts that, because of increasing home viewership of movies on home theatre systems and the terrible video iPod--particularly by young people--the "movies," that is, the actual experience of going to the theatre, may become a thing of the past. He also says that movie theatres themselves aren't helping, describing them as having "become the detritus of what seems, on a bad day, like a dying culture." No joke:
The concession stands [are] wrathfully noted, with their "small" Cokes in which you could drown a rabbit...add to that the pre-movie purgatory padded out to thirty minutes with ads, coming attractions, public-service announcements, theatre-chain logos, enticements for kitty-kat clubs and Ukrainian bakeries--anything to delay the movie and send you back to the concession stand... If you go to a thriller, you may sit through coming attractions for five or six action movies... a long stretch of convulsive imagery from what seems like a single terrible movie that you've seen before. At poorly run multiplexes, projector bulbs go dim, the prints develop scratches or turn yellow, the soles of your shoes stick to the floor, people jabber on cell phones, and rumbles and blasts bleed through the walls.
First of all, where the hell are you watching your movies? What is a "kitty-kat club"? And who in the world doesn't like previews? But Denby isn't all negative, instead, he looks back fondly at the days of the "old downtown picture palaces,"
a faintly remembered dream from childhood of cathedral lobbies and ushers in red uniforms with gold braid. The palaces had names like the Alhambra, the Luxor, the Roxy; the auditoriums were evocative of pagoda pavillions or Persian courts or some celestial paradise with flocks of fleecy blond cheribum suspended in blue ether.
I've been to movie theatres like that. They creep me out. I frankly don't need a sixteen year-old wearing a fez and a bellboy suit selling me candy.
But Denby's biggest problem isn't nostalgia. He contradicts his own arguments in the course of the article. While he strongly implies that movie-watching is about to drop off, and blames this potential decrease on teenagers and their crazy movie-watching gizmos, he admits that (A) movie attendance at the moment is "holding up," (B) "almost half of the audience but only twenty-five per cent of the population is aged between twelve and thirty," and that (C) it is, rather, the lack of attendance of older people that is problematic, both for revenues and for the types of films being made.
Denby really needs to relax. No one is going to stop going to the movies--especially young people. To be honest, I've personally only seen people using the "video" on their iPods in (A) the first week or two after purchase, and on (B) planes, trains, and buses, where they function more as crutches to avoid awkward social interactions than sources of entertainment. If movie theatres are poorly maintained, a competitor will open a better one. That's precisely what happened here in New Haven, where the Brattle Theatre--where whole seating sections used to be blocked off because of roof leaks--closed down when my beautiful baby Criterion Cinema moved in.
Separately, here's one movie that suggests that the movie industry's sky is not, in fact, falling: Children of Men. Holy Mother this movie is great. It does so many things: it is a dystopian thriller, in the vein of 1984 or 28 Days Later, but also the sharpest critique I've seen of Guantanamo and the anti-immigrant sentiment coursing through America. It needs to be seen on the big screen and judging by the numbers, people are doing exactly that.
Let me note that Children of Men was directed by Alfonso Cuarón, the same guy who brought you Harry Potter, Great Expectations, and Y Tu Mama Tambien. As Anthony Lane notes in the same issue as Denby's article, with quality films like Children of Men, Babel, and Pan's Labyrinth all coming from filmmakers south of the border, "[s]omething is afoot in Mexican filmmaking."
Final digression: While linking to all of these films, I noticed that Pan's Labyrinth has a 99% rating on Rotten Tomatoes--87 positive reviews out of 88 reviews total. Wow. I don't think I've seen that before.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Do Not Trust This Llama
This dude cheats at poker. Not to be trusted with lighter grains and small children.
All is Fair in Love and Finals, Pt. II
In order to get back at Dan for wrongs I will not specify on this website, I have eaten all of his hummus.
Yeah, that's right, Dan. Go check the fridge. I ate all of your hummus. What are you going to do about it?
Yeah, that's right, Dan. Go check the fridge. I ate all of your hummus. What are you going to do about it?
All is Fair in Love and Finals
1. I woke up at 2:00pm today.
2. I went to bed at 6:00am last night. Er, morning.
3. The other day, I ran out of clean socks. To put off laundry for one day, I wore my blue soccer socks. The kind you wear over your shinguards and that extend to the knee. No one noticed.
4. I can't believe I never thought of this in college.
6. For real, no joke.
7. If all else fails on my exams, I will use the Chewbacca Defense.
8. I'm calling it an early night and going to bed now.
2. I went to bed at 6:00am last night. Er, morning.
3. The other day, I ran out of clean socks. To put off laundry for one day, I wore my blue soccer socks. The kind you wear over your shinguards and that extend to the knee. No one noticed.
4. I can't believe I never thought of this in college.
5. Did you know that the right to counsel in Miranda is derived from the 5th Amendment privilege against self-incrimination and not the 6th Amendment?
6. For real, no joke.
7. If all else fails on my exams, I will use the Chewbacca Defense.
8. I'm calling it an early night and going to bed now.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Losing Afghanistan
Reading alot about Iraq in the headlines, I didn't quite realize just how bad the situation is Afghanistan. According to this sobering article in Foreign Affairs, the Taliban is resurgent, conducting attacks with increasing sophistication (often using methods imported from Iraq), erecting a system of courts parallel to the government's, and openly operating out of Quetta, a provincial capital in Pakistan. Here's the kicker: Pakistan's intelligence agency, the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), is actively supporting the Taliban leadership.
Concludes Newsweek's Fareed Zakaria: "Afghanistan is in danger of becoming a version of Iraq, where the central government has collapsed, disorder is rife and a Qaeda-backed insurgency controls large swathes of the country."
The problem? Not enough troops and equipment. And the NATO-led troops that are there often have to operate under crippling rules of engagement that their individual countries impose upon them. As this op-ed in the Financial Times explains, even after the most recent NATO summit in Riga, only the Americans, British, Canadians, Dutch and Australians are allowed to fight in the most dangerous areas of Aghanistan--countries like Germany, France, Italy and Spain have only agreed to enter these areas to assist allies in the case of an "emergency."
But the problems aren't just military. Other indications suggest that the international aid operation is just as big of a disaster. The Foreign Affairs piece refers to "poorly designed and coordinated technical assistance," and donor organizations that insist on sending their own technical advisers from abroad that are clueless to the conditions on the ground.
I read the most blistering critique of the aid operation in Afghanistan in The Places in Between, a brilliant book written by a young Scotsman, Rory Stewart, who had the gall (and something else that rhymes with "gall") to walk across Afghanistan in January 2001, just weeks after the Taliban fell. As someone who was thoroughly familiar with Middle Eastern and Central Asian languages and cultures, Stewart had this to say about the flood of young aid administrators and bureaucrats who entered Afghanistan:
...They were mostly in their late twenties or early thirties, with at least two degrees--often in international law, economics, or development. They came from middle-class backgrounds in Western countries, and in the evenings, they dined with each other and swapped anecdotes about corruption in the government and the incompetence of the United Nations. They rarely drove their SUVs outside Kabul because their security advisers forbade it.
Some...were experienced and well informed about conditions in rural Afghanistan. But they were barely fifty out of many thousands. Most of the policy makers knew next to nothing about the villages where 90 percent of the Afghan population lived... [They] did not have the time, structures, or resources for a serious study of an alien culture. They justified their lack of knowledge and experience by focusing on poverty and implying that dramatic cultural differences did not exist.
Stewart packs the harshest and certainly most "gallsy" part of his critique in a footnote, where he states:
Critics have accused this new breed of administrators of neocolonialism. But in fact their approach is not that of a nineteenth-century colonial officer. Colonial administrations may have been racist and exploitative, but they did at least work seriously at the business of understanding the people they were governing. They recruited people prepared to spend their entire careers in dangerous provinces of a single alien nation...
Postconflict experts have got the prestige without the effort or stigma of imperialism. Their implicit denial of the difference between cultures is the new mass brand of international intervention. Their policy fails but no one notices. There are no credible monitoring bodies and there is no one to take formal responsibility. Individual officers are never in any one place and rarely in any one organization long enough to be adequately assessed... In fact their very uselessness benefits them. By avoiding any serious action or judgment they, unlike their colonial predecessors, are able to escape accusations of racism, exploitation, and oppression.
Whew. (It is important to know that after Afghanistan, Stewart put his money where his mouth was and served as a deputy provincial governor of Amarah and Nasiriyah after the Iraq invasion.) More troops may be on their way to Kabul, but the sort of problems described by Stewart will take much longer to fix.
Postscript: I would highly recommend Stewart's book. The section I quoted is perhaps the only "political" part; the rest is a beautiful and at times riveting travelogue. One moment he is commenting on the possible provenance of a mysterious ancient minaret; the next he is talking his way out of getting shot because his old adopted Aimaq fighting dog is considered unclean. A quick and enlightening read.
Concludes Newsweek's Fareed Zakaria: "Afghanistan is in danger of becoming a version of Iraq, where the central government has collapsed, disorder is rife and a Qaeda-backed insurgency controls large swathes of the country."
The problem? Not enough troops and equipment. And the NATO-led troops that are there often have to operate under crippling rules of engagement that their individual countries impose upon them. As this op-ed in the Financial Times explains, even after the most recent NATO summit in Riga, only the Americans, British, Canadians, Dutch and Australians are allowed to fight in the most dangerous areas of Aghanistan--countries like Germany, France, Italy and Spain have only agreed to enter these areas to assist allies in the case of an "emergency."
But the problems aren't just military. Other indications suggest that the international aid operation is just as big of a disaster. The Foreign Affairs piece refers to "poorly designed and coordinated technical assistance," and donor organizations that insist on sending their own technical advisers from abroad that are clueless to the conditions on the ground.
I read the most blistering critique of the aid operation in Afghanistan in The Places in Between, a brilliant book written by a young Scotsman, Rory Stewart, who had the gall (and something else that rhymes with "gall") to walk across Afghanistan in January 2001, just weeks after the Taliban fell. As someone who was thoroughly familiar with Middle Eastern and Central Asian languages and cultures, Stewart had this to say about the flood of young aid administrators and bureaucrats who entered Afghanistan:
...They were mostly in their late twenties or early thirties, with at least two degrees--often in international law, economics, or development. They came from middle-class backgrounds in Western countries, and in the evenings, they dined with each other and swapped anecdotes about corruption in the government and the incompetence of the United Nations. They rarely drove their SUVs outside Kabul because their security advisers forbade it.
Some...were experienced and well informed about conditions in rural Afghanistan. But they were barely fifty out of many thousands. Most of the policy makers knew next to nothing about the villages where 90 percent of the Afghan population lived... [They] did not have the time, structures, or resources for a serious study of an alien culture. They justified their lack of knowledge and experience by focusing on poverty and implying that dramatic cultural differences did not exist.
Stewart packs the harshest and certainly most "gallsy" part of his critique in a footnote, where he states:
Critics have accused this new breed of administrators of neocolonialism. But in fact their approach is not that of a nineteenth-century colonial officer. Colonial administrations may have been racist and exploitative, but they did at least work seriously at the business of understanding the people they were governing. They recruited people prepared to spend their entire careers in dangerous provinces of a single alien nation...
Postconflict experts have got the prestige without the effort or stigma of imperialism. Their implicit denial of the difference between cultures is the new mass brand of international intervention. Their policy fails but no one notices. There are no credible monitoring bodies and there is no one to take formal responsibility. Individual officers are never in any one place and rarely in any one organization long enough to be adequately assessed... In fact their very uselessness benefits them. By avoiding any serious action or judgment they, unlike their colonial predecessors, are able to escape accusations of racism, exploitation, and oppression.
Whew. (It is important to know that after Afghanistan, Stewart put his money where his mouth was and served as a deputy provincial governor of Amarah and Nasiriyah after the Iraq invasion.) More troops may be on their way to Kabul, but the sort of problems described by Stewart will take much longer to fix.
Postscript: I would highly recommend Stewart's book. The section I quoted is perhaps the only "political" part; the rest is a beautiful and at times riveting travelogue. One moment he is commenting on the possible provenance of a mysterious ancient minaret; the next he is talking his way out of getting shot because his old adopted Aimaq fighting dog is considered unclean. A quick and enlightening read.
How great is it that...
...Thomas Jefferson owned a copy of the Quran? Forget Obama. Raise that man from the dead and re-elect him. I can't imagine the 22nd Amendment applies to the undead.Update: Dan has conducted some legislative interpretation on his own and has come to the conclusion that the 22nd Amendment "probably applies to dead people." Dan: "It all depends on the definition of 'person.' The amendment reads, "No person...". It doesn't read, "No living person," now does it?" Thanks Dan. Duly noted.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Quantic; The "Most Required" Llama
Was surfing Cool Hunting yesterday instead of preparing for exams and discovered a great young artist, UK-based DJ/producer Quantic. His latest album, An Announcement to Answer caught my eye, and I quickly bought it on iTunes.It's generally uptempo, and combines some eastern influences (check out Absence Heard, Presence Felt) with some older-school Latin stuff (Sabor) and some horn-friendly hip-hop that reminds me of Talib Kweli (Ticket to You Know Where). And some of it just plain rocks (Tell It Like You Mean It). I dig.
Random single you need to purchase on iTunes: You Fly Me by Fingathing. (You can listen to it on the crummy Amazon.com sample player, but you really should just drop the $0.99 and buy the thing.) I pulled this guy out of this pretty cool mix made by Stephane Pompougnac, a French DJ who is famous for the mixes he makes for Hotel Costes (no joke, that's actually the website), apparently the Parisian equivalent of the uber-chic Hudson Hotel.
Pompougnac, who is apparently two parts DJ and one part European-celebrity-metrosexual, has this hilarious over-the-top bio on him online that was written by someone who was remarkably close to being fluent in English. The money quote(s):
This is the real Stéphane Pompougnac, seen as an “urban neo-aristocrat” in Italy, as a “French signature DJ” in England, as Hotel Costes’ little prince turned “Baroque Olympus” in Germany, and hailed worldwide as the icon of New French Sophistication. Today he is DJing at Gucci, hopping from Bristol (where he plays at Massive Attack’s open bar) to Rio, working with Madonna (he remixed “What it feels like for a girl”), whirling Nicole Kidman at Cannes for the release of “Moulin Rouge” or performing at Cameron Diaz’s restaurant in Miami, the Bamboo Bar. Mixing jet lags and forever between planes...
[...]
Today, Stéphane is one of the most required DJ, spreading the music "à la française" all over the world.
What an ass. Though I have to admit it would be nice to be the "most required" something. And frankly I like the sound of mixing "jet lags and forever." Has the sound of a bad American Airlines-DeBeers joint promo.
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