20 January 2009

Why was it startling to see Dick Cheney in a wheelchair?

Because it was only then that I realized that these two were separated at birth:


the best bit of dialogue I overheard on the mall during this week's festivities...

Woman on cell phone: Joey...Joey. Yeah, I'm in line. ...what do you mean where? I'm in the line. THE LINE...Joey, do you see where all the people are? All the people? That's where I am. Go there.

17 January 2009

this is change I can believe in

Well, I am just back from the finest "brewery" in Mount Pleasant - home of the inaugurale. I'm running out again in a second, so this is just a short note with an inaugural flavor: people are great. I mean, they suck, but sitting on a stool in this guy's basement while random people show up to buy a few bottles of an Obama-themed beer, is just so fun. I only got a little taste of it, but I liked it quite a bit. Trying to figure out when to open the few bottles I managed to snag from there...

And the people there! Burning man-goers! Writers for dcist! And the music? An Obama-themed mix supplied by yours truly. I'm just peppy right now because the mood there was so generous, so happy. And I suddenly had a flash of other times in history when civilians have come together to praise a new leader through folk art, through food, through...beer. The audacity of hops indeed. This brewer, in purely thematic terms, is working on an entirely different level. Kudos, and kudos to our little burg, for being so full of polite on-the-sly creative types and hippies.

16 January 2009

A quick note to my cats

You don't need to be walked. You are therefore awesome. Truly truly awesome. Keep up the good work.

11 January 2009

Is it a nice day?

Shit yes. But I'd still rather be in the Carneros region, doing this:

From 12-08 california


Or touring Schramsberg's caves (and tasting their sparkling rose afterward):

From 12-08 california


Or eating pinot noir grapes off the vine...

From 12-08 california

07 January 2009

on checking the "other" box

Are Brazilians latinos? I say we aren’t. Let’s start with the evolution of ethnic nomenclature. It used to be that Brazilians might feel obligated to check the “Hispanic” box. Maybe some kind of pan-American guilt or a sense of Latin American camaraderie might impel us to do so. Except, obviously, we don’t speak Spanish. Nor are we of Spanish descent. (And what about Guyana, Surinam, and French Guyana?? Brazil isn't the only country in South American that doesn't speak Spanish!)

But the bigger problem with “Hispanic” – as a general term – is that it is used to describe central and South American people who are probably more likely to be predominantly of indigenous ancestry as opposed to be European. I mean here’s an Argentine (the odious Cannigia) who can be described as “Hispanic”:






















Definitely of European descent, right? And here’s someone who might also be described as Hispanic – Evo Morales, president of Bolivia.





What do Morales and Cannigia have in common? Basically, these two guys share a language, and probably nothing else. So, “Hispanic” doesn’t describe ethnicity, it just describes the language you speak. Why should it not include Europeans who speak Spanish, then?

Beyond this definitional issue, it’s a bit irksome that there is a distinction between indigenous Americans and Americans of European descent – but that it only applies in the U.S. Once you're in Mexico or below, only language matters, I guess.

The personal issue I had with “Hispanic” was also that, even if I overlooked all of these problems, there would still be the fact that Brazilians were specifically excluded from the definition by national societies, especially for purposes of scholarships and other kinds of recognition. I will absolutely not have my accomplishments in any way counted toward a demographic group that has excluded me from any of the benefits available to its other members. (Would I capitulate if I could get something out of it? I don't think so. But I would be more happy to get a bit sloppy and sing, 'Who am I / to blow against the wind?')

“Hispanic” then became “Latino,” presumably to make the concept a bit more inclusive – and on the whole, “Latino” is probably more correct than “Hispanic.” But doesn’t it still suffer from a similar language problem? It means that you speak a language derived from Latin? Wouldn’t Italians and the French then also be “latino”? I can get behind Latin American – in fact, I can get behind American, because before the word was co-opted to mean a U.S. American (years before Miss Teen South Carolina immortalized the phrase) it meant, in general terms, both North and South America.

And again, even if I were predisposed to overlook these issues, there’s still the fact that, again, Brazilians are specifically excluded from the definition.

So, don’t hate the Doobie Brothers, and don’t hate Rita Lee. I'm not doing this because I'm finnicky - I'm doing it because we’re all Americans - U.S. American or other-American. Some of us like black beans, and some of us are Canadian, which is also a kind of American. Some of us play football with our feet, and some of us play a game of football that rarely involves touching a ball with one’s feet. No worries. Let’s be all European Union about this and just feel groovy about our shared American-ness, and let’s all start checking the “other” box as soon as possible, because in some way, I guarantee, you are not someone else’s idea of what makes an American.

Is it wrong...

to snicker about a co-worker who plans to spend her wedding anniversary making a return trip to this place? This is not a young person. But also not so old that this makes sense. So, am I a bastard?

The more I think about this, the more this person should be a frequent subject of discussion here.

Rainy day song...?

If you're looking for a fearlessly sentimental (and fearlessly produced! check out the studio orchestra!) song about growing "old (or more comfortable)" - as I understand the song is titled - check out this song from my brother. I listened to it about three times on my way into work this morning. I'm clearly biased, but it's one of my favorite songs from 2008.

PS. For those not familiar with yousendit.com, the link is good for 7 days from the date of this post. Get it now!

05 January 2009

I should be happier right now.

Indeed.

I don’t know what it is, but I seem to be struggling with the male emotional cycle again. Or at least that's what I call it. Though I should have a little bit of optimism left from the totally mean-spirited and killjoy win that the Wizards coaxed from the jaws of defeat against Cleveland yesterday but...it was nice, except it would have been much nicer if they had called LeTravel for the four steps he took on a similar lay-up back in the 2006 playoffs, but oh well.

In any case, I’m not feeling deflated - I’ve got plenty of rage left, that much is undeniable. LeBron is an Argentine, as far as I’m concerned. How does a 6’9 man who is a bona fide superstar and who weighs 250 lbs think it’s ok to spend every game whining about everything?

So I enjoy the circus-like feel that accompanies a LeBron loss in Washington, but it’s not really helping, even though “crab dribble” has momentarily become part of the national sports lexicon. (The “crab dribble” is, surprisingly, non-venereal!)

Actually, a pitiful Wizards win in January just reminds me of the plethora of ways in which the Wiz/Bullets are their own worst enemies. And that’s just it: every little glimmer of positive news from here or there just seems like a reminder of what isn’t. I guess I should be all T.I. about it and start singing “live your life” or whatever, but instead I’m just thinking of unmet obligations, of upcoming changes, and of the Sisyphean task that is relating to people in a healthy way.

Plus, I’ve got immense blisters on my feet from ice skating in Central Park, so I’m walking kind of weird and slow. Appropriately, I listened to Fennesz’s lovely “Endless Summer” on the metro this morning, and it was good soundtracking for today: no rhythm, static-y. About the only positive thing I can think of doing is creating a tag for this kind of entry and mention the male emotional cycle whenever I think I stumble into it, and then take a look back in six months to find out if this mood really does follow some weird lunar cycle or not. Partly because one of the things I hope to do this year is to make “sad bastard country” a place that I visit for short periods, and only out of necessity, instead of an old coat that I’m reluctant to put in the “give away” pile for Martha’s Table, but it seems the only creative and positive thing I can think to do with it is to write, this, today, and start the counting.

And because we must remain positive, I’m less than two months out from the next half-marathon, and it’s been a few months since I’ve run a distance greater than five miles. This spells TROUBBLE. Tee ar oh ewe. Bee bee bee el ee. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

04 January 2009

The Doobie Brothers

We were up in NYC with Papa Bear over New Year's Eve. After a long and frigid new year's eve, we took it pretty slow on the first. Virginia Tech was playing a bowl game that night, which had Ms. Abstract Citizen quite excited. So, as part of the family left to take in a horrifying amount of Abba songs, I convinced my dad to stay in with us and watch the third or fourth American football game of his life. (He dimly remembers a Super Bowl game in 1979 or so.)

During the conversation, I mentioned that I won't be checking the "latino" box on my grad school application, going instead with my old standby - "other." (More on that in a different post.) Papa Bear was, I suppose, happy to hear this.

The game continued, and we continued to explain the intricacies of American football to him. We were drinking Catena, St Emilion, eating food from Balducci's next door, and generally having a grand time. Till the halftime entertainment started. "Who are these people? They're friends of your brother's, right?" I chuckled. "Who, the Doobie Brothers?"

My dad: Wait. Really? This is really the Doobie Brothers?
Me: That's what they said last commercial. Halftime entertainment is the Doobie Brothers.
My dad: There's a history there. The Doobie Brothers. You won't check the "latino" box, and there's a story about this...

And down that rabbit hole we go. It seems that many moons ago, while my dad was a grad student, the Latin American Studies Center at Berkeley was having a party. Brazilians don't quite fit into a lot of these categories, but my dad decided to be a sport anyway and go. As he tells it, they were playing insufferably "native" music. Stuff that's basically as "authentic" (whatever that means) as your average subway-musician's take on "El Condor Pasa." (God, how I hate that song.) You know, music with costumes, flutes, and so on.

My dad and some of the other Brazilians imposed on the organizers to play some Brazilian music. This was, ostensibly, a latin american-themed party, and while we're not Latinos or Hispanic, we are proudly Latin American. So, he got them to play a Rita Lee tape.

There's an old leftist mentality in parts of Latin America that considers Coke to be an imperialist drink, and rock to be its cultural equivalent. Well, these were these kinds of people. And Rita Lee, Caetano Velos, and the other tropicalistas were the first big artists to openly embrace American rock during the turbulent 1960s. And her stuff in the 1980s was unabashedly commercial. But she is important, as any fan of Beck's and other post-tropicalista artists ought to know. Does it get much better than "Panis et Circenses"...?



Anyway, enough background about Rita Lee. Let's move on to the punchline. One of the Chilean organizers gets tired of the lone representative of Brazilian music after a few minutes. He changes the tape, finds my dad, and returns the cassette to him, saying, "Here's your Doobie Brothers, or whatever the hell it was."

May everyone's 2009be full of contextually-inappropriate contempt for the Doobie Brothers.