You Know My Steez

Gerda Taro escaped Nazi Germany, joined some leftist groups in the 1930′s, covered the Spanish Civil War as a photojournalist, was kickin’ it with Robert Capa, and died during the Battle of Brunette later in Spain.

She turned down Robert Capa’s marriage proposal (Quelle Intrigue!), even though they were more than just professional companions, and they were together amidst the turbulent 1930′s in Europe.

Did I mention she is a chick?

Thousands of their photo negatives were discovered recently and are on display at the International Center of Photography, in an exhibit called The Mexican Suitcase. If you are in NYC, you must see this!

Theirs was a time when Gerta and Robert would have had to carry around boxes of film stock, and capture images of the tanks and refugee camps and soldiers and wounded children and people smoking cigarettes on the fly, with no automatic focusing or digital light meters or erasable memory cards. Sigh.

A friend recently told me a fun anecdote about Ernest Hemingway, that he was challenged to write a complete story in six words. Harder than you’d think, for it to be truly compelling or vivid.

His answer was pretty morbid, but astonishingly powerful- “Baby Shoes For Sale, Never Worn.”

I pose the challenge to you; can you write a fully realized story in just six words?

“But maybe all art is about just trying to live on for a bit. I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.” – Banksy

Or, THE PERILS OF TEXT MESSAGING

I almost feel guilty rehashing this story, but Mets fans could use a little levity these days. When I heard that our closing pitcher had injured his most valuable asset while punching his girlfriend’s father, I was confused. I thought professional athletes walk around in bubble wrap. Don’t they have hermetically sealed glass cases to protect whatever body part carries home the bacon?

Apparently not.

Like most horribly selfish fans, I wish K Rod had thought to strike with his left hand. Sadly, his temper has cost him a LOT of effing money and possibly his entire contract if the Mets opt to release him next year.  There are a lot of righteous fans out there who might argue he is getting his just desserts, but let’s not forget the franchise’s decision to disqualify him is not a moral one. Business is business, and Frankie will be back on the mound if he can keep making saves (and stops punching people with his throwing arm).

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This story I wrote was originally published in the Winter 2005 edition of ANOTHER MAGAZINE. I decided to revise it here, noting that the region of Catalan just outlawed bullfights.

Before we even reach the arena, a waft of cigar smoke fills my lungs. I can’t see anyone smoking, it’s just sort of a lingering stench that matches the sand-colored air. I am walking slowly, lackadaisically, because it’s so hot I might puke. It’s easier to surrender to the crowd, and move mindlessly towards what I can’t see anyway in the flare of the afternoon sun. We herd ourselves past vendors offering yellow visors made of sticky plastic, and I can’t even raise my arms to grab one.

Inside the crowd finally disperses, revealing thousands of older men with yellow foreheads. I shuffle past the ones in my row, whispering, “perdon, perdoname senor, lo siento,” etc, but none of them can hear me over the chattering din. The men compare score cards and place bets, and, when my leg brushes past a lit cigar, I am surprised to hear an apology leap from my throat. The aficionado takes no notice, and there is no room to bend down and wipe off the ash.

I sit down, enthralled and confused, trying to make sense of all these people. When the first torero comes out, cheers reverberate from every concrete bleacher, and the flags of each little person in that stadium twinkle like the bullfighter’s brocaded costume. My friend and I try to practice our Spanish by asking the men behind us what everything means, what are the rules, what happens when the bull cowers in the corner, and why doesn’t it fight back? Maybe because we are gringas, all they tell us is that so-and-so slept with so-and-so, and this one had an affair with that one’s stepmother. The torero is jabbing the bull in the neck with spears wrapped in white gauze, and soon the white ends turns a deep sanguine red. It suddenly dawns on me that the two can’t leave until the bull is dead, and I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that earlier. It looks like a romantic dance, this intricate battle between man and beast, with the torero gracefully masking any sort of brutality. As more and more blood trickles down the bull’s sweaty neck, it grows visibly weaker, barely able to hold up its head. I am numbly transfixed when occasionally that survival instinct surges again, and the bull makes a sudden yet feeble attempt to gore its attacker. The torero stands tall and powerful in his regalia, his bravado never wavering. He is proud and masculine, but has the posture of a ballerina.

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The other night on Sports Center, the guy whose profession it is to follow baseball pronounced it “Youruhbay.” Where Juan Uribe was born, the accent is not on the first syllable, and most certainly not pronounced the way it was on television. I take issue with this because sometimes it sticks, as is the case with Mets pitcher? reliever? reluctant minor leaguer?- Oliver Perez. Normally his last name is obvious- like Smith, or Johnson, or even efffing Mozart. However, because the announcers anglicize it to stress the second syllable, an otherwise simple name is now tantamount to Van Gogh.

We are a nation of immigrants, people. Hardly anyone can say their ancestors were born in the United States. Even the first pioneers were once immigrants. That said, our country is full of heroic moments as well as savage ones. If you’re family was part of the founding of the U.S. proper, you got a lot of Thanksgiving to do.

And this, coming from a Waspy European Mutt.

When I was in Elementary school, I lied to my friends about being a foreigner. I literally created this elaborate ruse that I was French because my mother gave birth on a plane from France (impossible, considering FAA regulations, not to mention my mother’s travel schedule). I was so envious of my exotic Indian- American friend Carishma and my closest friend Michelle, whose parents left China, that I had to compete on the Interesting Factor. Ambiguously White was not going to cut it.

By the time we hit Junior High School, I remember wanting to be unique so badly that I was confused when Chinese-American Michelle thwarted a bully by insisting she was “American.” After gym class she was asked- ironically by a black girl- “What exactly are you?” Michelle responded defiantly, “I’m American.” If it had been me, I would have emphasized the fact that my parents came here from a distant country, but Michelle hadn’t taken the bait. In retrospect, she had a arrived to that scene with different emotional baggage.

And she was right. She was essentially an American- born here, perfectly bilingual (she understood her parents Mandarin but spoke back in impeccable English, and always had a better vocabulary than I did). On the other hand, I was envious of the traditions her parents had (and the savory rice dishes made fresh every night that have spoiled any restaurant for me since).

That’s why I’m certifiably flumoxed when I read about these immigration laws in Arizona, or when I hear about a debate over multilingual ATMs. I sometimes don’t know what country I live in. Are we really that culturally isolated? Thank goodness, in reality, we aren’t.

Forget the excuse of drug wars just over the Mexican border. A few months ago, a border patrol officer shot a Mexican teenager. There has to be a more effective way to target specific crimes, not chalk everything up to immigration. Or worse, conveniently overlook illegal immigration when that is profitable. Drugs are bad, Mkay. But so is the exploitation of undocumented workers.  The market fluctuations that make North Americans fear a loss of jobs most wouldn’t take in the first place are the same reasons drugs are car jumped profitably across those-soon-to-be-walled borders.

I hate that I sound like a pundit, but the debate around immigration reform reeks of thinly veiled racism. I was lucky to grow up in a city that is particularly special because it is a melting pot- or a salad bowl- which was oddly the subject of a history exam I took in high school. Thank you, New York, for welcoming the tired, the poor (though not really in Manhattan), the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, and letting them work and even build great businesses that continue to enrich our City.

Hardfiskur, anyone?

I was lucky to spend a few months in Iceland back in 2004, working on a film by Icelandic director Balthasar Kormakur. I have so many fond memories of that unique country, from its quaint capital to its breathtaking landscape. Even the language is an exotic mix that sounds like German, Swedish, and even Spanish, with a hint of maybe Czech thrown in for good measure. (The word for Yes is actually an inhalation!)

It is a special place, full of people who work hard and play hard. The bars never close (I caught none other than Bjork singing privately to her friend while stumbling home one night). The light is extreme-when there is light- you feel like you might just be close enough to helicopter to the moon. There are few people, but there is so much being created (The expression in Iceland is There are as many bands as there are families, but the bands stay together longer). They value ecology and sustainability, which makes sense considering the natural environment is awe inspiring. And, of course, The Northern Lights! The Northern Lights!

Reading about Iceland’s economic collapse gave me pause, because of my particular affinity for the place. It is not the only country struggling now, but theirs is maybe more extreme because of their isolation and size. The Iceland I remember was something out of a children’s picture perfect storybook.

It didn’t surprise me in the least to read about the protests as a result of a failing government. Like I said, they work hard, play hard, and apparently they civilly disobey hard.

So leave it to the descendants of Vikings to elect a comedian as their new mayor. Seriously, he actually got elected! Jon Gnarr started The Best Party as a gag, and now he’s in charge.

Amazing. Iceland is the awesomest tiny country in the world.

P.S. Hardfiskur is like shark meat Jerky, except it smells like urine.

Stanley Crouch gave me a D on my Jazz midterm in college, and I’ve been in awe ever since. His writing is as infectious as his lectures, so you find yourself agreeing with the man just because he sounds so damn lyrical. In this age of information overload, social commentary can seem insignificant and fleeting, but Crouch zooms out from the here and now. He reminds his reader that no one lives in a vacuum- even something as frivolous as an outfit, and especially the response it garners, is significant.

I happily caught this article he wrote about Venus Williams, and I was immediately fired up.

Who else can come up with the sentence, “Does symbolically showing her ass mean that she has swallowed the radioactive but solid gold fish wet from the bowl of constant attention?” Crouch points out that like many women, Williams has been tricked into believing that provocative clothing is an exercise in empowerment. As a woman, she is demeaning herself, magnified by the fact that she is black.  She may defy The White Man and His aesthetic of beauty, but at what cost? (I’d probably get a ‘D’ for that, but luckily I’m not being graded anymore).

Confused? So was I. Scoring in Tennis sounds to me like the teacher in Charlie Brown, but I’m pretty sure that Venus Williams is a formidable tennis player. She doesn’t have to rely on her sex appeal, but she doesn’t deny it either. All the more powerful if you accept Crouch’s assumption that Williams’ beauty is unconventional, or (eek!) threatening (his words, not mine).

Seems like there’s a whole lot more talk around what these ladies wear than how they played. Remember Maria Sharapova’s tuxedo shirt at Wimbledon? Or when Williams was lauded for that Tina Turner number? Oh right, the gold fish wet from the bowl of constant attention.

What’s the girl to do? If you put your body through that much physical exertion every day, why not show it off? I kid, and my guess is that Mr. Crouch would argue, “Because it’s cheap.” She could play tennis in a burka, and probably get as much press. But then, Match Point- The White Man?

I’d like to think Venus is playing the haters, but that’s a hard game to win.

I haven’t been to SoHo in a long time, but a few days ago I walked by the building where I grew up.  The facade is still there, but it is a shell of its former self. Like many of the surrounding structures, the five-story loft building has a new coat of paint and a “store for lease” sign above what used to be an active loading dock. The fire escape crawling up the front is gone, probably shifted to the alleys in the back, and nearly everything else has been replaced. And everything that has been replaced has a story…

If you watch my short film RAVING, there’s a scene where Zooey Deschanel climbs down a fire escape- that’s my old homestead.

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When you are offered special treatment, make sure they define special…

The dreadful thing about flying is not your precarious position in the air, or the possibility of mechanical failure, it is the experience of being hearded like cattle. To borrow from David Foster Wallace, it is being made to feel bovine.

Get in line, take off your shoes, that bag has to be checked and that will be $25 dollars, sit down, eat your slop, and don’t ask questions or we might arrest you. We are so desperate to get where we are going, and safely, that we tolerate the smells, the  inefficiency, those sneaky extra fees, the pat downs, even the bare feet on dirty linoleum floors.

Flying to Los Angeles, I was surprised when the stewardess (flight attendant?) whispered discretely to me that there was a bulkhead seat available up front. Ooh, the leg room! I took her up on the offer, only to spend the next 6 hours next to the bathroom. I tried desperately to ignore the steady parade of rear ends in my face, an experience which brings new meaning to the phrase “cheek to cheek.” I employed yogic breathing exercises to avoid inhaling the E. Coli spores wafting about. I hummed, I fidgeted, I passed on the microwave quote unquote cheeseburger.

When we landed, the young man next to me kissed his hand and raised it to the sky, attempting a private moment of gratitude. I also thanked Quien Sabe, happy to be on the ground, not taking for granted that no major disasters had occurred. I’ve been on flights where people clapped for the captain. But I’m like a dog that needs to be walked; I can’t sit still that long, so I was mostly grateful to stand up. I wasn’t alone, either, as everyone sprang to attention when that seat belt light went off.

One trick I used to distract myself from the bowel movements of my fellow passengers was to create band names. I’m compiling a master list so I stop forgetting them. It’s short so far, but I encourage suggestions. And I can’t take credit anyway, as most of them came up in conversations with friends. A communal copyright, if you will.

Desperation Theory

Sospechosos

That Shit’s So Brooklyn

Whutsisface

Bravo! Samson

Careful with Money

Scatter the Ashes

The Filth

Ladeeda

Tiger Wash?