Spanish Lesson: Drugs or Booze?

In Spanish, "GNC" and "Hennessy" sound the same.

Everyone's a Critic: Spanish or in Spanish?

Yesterday in a small bookstore I came across the latest copy of Granta. It was a collection of stories by "The Best of Young Spanish-Language Novelists"—the next Llosas and Bolaños, as the back cover put it. Of the twenty or so writers included, eight were from Argentina, six were from Spain, and only one was from Mexico.

It occurred to me that this was the first time I had seen a copy of the literary magazine in Mexico.

Adventures in Rhythm / Something like Something: Dramatic Walls

Glenn Gould playing "Lord Salisbury's Pavan and Galliard," by Orlando Gibbons, filmed 1974.

El Camarón de la Isla singing a Seguiriyas, filmed ca. 1980 (?).

Mexico City: Scenes—Shady Slim

Today, Forbes magazine announced that the U.S. has the most millionaires of any country in the world, but that the richest man in the world lives in Mexico.

Stranger with You: A Year in Mexico

Today I've been in Mexico for a year. I don't know what happened. Having lived my entire life in temperate climates, I have serious trouble noticing time pass here, because there are basically no seasons.

I had been thinking that this blog should have more entries on "life in Mexico," or something like that. But I prefer the imaginary description of my life in the D.F. that I received in an email from a friend in New York:

...Avi, who is hiding in a bunker while Mexican drug lords shoot there [sic] six shooter revolvers, one in each hand pointed sky high, wearing sombraros [sic] and ponchos.

So I guess this could also be filed in an "Antiquariana" post about ye olde Mexico, which I suppose many people imagine to have looked like this:

Mexico City: Scenes—Digital Pirates

Pirated CDs and DVDs can be bought everywhere in Mexico City: in street markets, on the Metro, in Metro stations, in front of Metro stations, in front of movie theaters. Today, after nearly a year in Mexico, I bought my first pirated DVD—a copy of an Oscar-nominated American film which was released in Mexico as "Spirit of Steel." It cost fifteen pesos, or about $1.25.

Will report back on the quality.

Spanish Lesson: The Royal Lemon

 In a country where basically anything can grow, there are some curious culinary absences. One is yeast. You can't simply find it in the grocery store like you can in the U.S. They only have baking powder and when you try to ask where the yeast is they just bring you back to the baking powder because the word for both items is levadura.

Mexicans love beans but unless you are willing to go to a huge market and find a place with dried beans you only have two options: black beans or brown beans. It took me eight months to finally find a small store near my house that sells garbanzo beans on a regular basis. It was a revelation. People here live in complete ignorance of the spectacular depth and variety of the world of beans. Once, early in my stay here, I was at the grocery with a Mexican friend and was getting frustrated by the endless rows of black and brown beans, whole and re-fried.

"Why do they never have any red beans?" I asked.

"What are red beans?" she said.

That's when I gave up asking people about beans.

But most mysterious of all is the complete lack of lemons. Here it is all limes, all the time. I have not once seen a lemon at a grocery store or a market, and I would wager that I have not even tasted real lemon a single time while in Mexico. Mexicans are unfazed about this. There even seems to be some confusion in Mexico about what a lemon is. This may arise from the fact that in Spain, the word for lemon is limón and the word for lime is lima. But in Mexico the word for lime is limón (so that when you ask people about "lemons" they think you are talking about limes) and the word for lemon is up for debate. Some contend that the correct word is limonero, while others insist on citron, and an American friend who lives here offers yet another option in limón real: "real" or "royal" lime.

One Mexican guy I met at a party had a different perspective: "Of course we have lemons here. There are some lemon trees growing in my grandmother's garden. We just don't use them. Why would you? Limes are better."

"Better in what way?" I said. "They're different."

"Better in every way!" he said.

Also they have about ten kinds of beers here that all taste like Corona and they don't have any other beers.

On the Street: The Crowd's Speech

 
I have been listening to American radio broadcasts covering the uprisings in Egypt, Bahrain and Libya nearly every day. After teaching English in Mexico for nearly ten months, I am repeatedly amazed by these Arabic protesters, shouting into reporters' microphones in sophisticated and eloquent English while they are out on the street protesting.

Spanish Lesson: The Polite Plastic Bag

One way that Mexicans express friendliness or politeness in their speech is by adding diminutive suffixes to words. This makes sense with nouns, and was easy enough to get used to. In giving directions, someone on the street might tell you to pass the "parquecito," or little park, even if it isn't a small park. At the cafe, someone might ask for a "cafecito," even if he wants a large.

Sometimes this habit makes less sense. You come back from the beach and a friend tells you that you are "quemarito"—even if you are extremely burnt. When you order a juice at the corner store, the cashier asks you if you want "el chico o el grandecito"—the little one or the nice little big one. How much does that taco cost? "Diez pesitos." When should I come back? "Treinta minutitos." Of course calling them little minutes doesn't make them go by any faster.

After eleven months here, I still haven't integrated this into my speech, which makes me afraid that I am constantly being impolite because I ask for a "bag" at the 7-Eleven and not a "nice little bag."

Mexico City: Scenes—Se Busca Fido

Mexicans love to carry their dogs. I think this is why they invented the Chihuahua.

On another note: Recently I had been puzzled by the sheer number of lost dog flyers up everywhere in Mexico City. Then I realized this is because Mexicans walk their dogs without leashes (when they are not carrying them).

Elsewhere in Mexico: Guadalajara and Tequila, September

Mexico City: Scenes—David in the Harem

Recently some friends convinced me to spend Saturday night with them at a place called Bulldog Cafe. It was a strange place because it in no way resembled a cafe, nor was it going in the least for the British pub theme I had expected after seeing the flag outside the  door that featured a British bulldog clad in a suit. Instead the interior was towering and cavernous, one side full of minarets and tiled arches and salt-shaker shaped doorways that made it look like the set for a B movie that takes place in some dusty Arab harem. It was basically a multistory nightclub with an endless bar and Dolce and Gabbana-wearing teenagers and strangely bright lights (seriously, I kept waiting for the lights to dim right up until the moment we left at three in the morning).

The main attraction of the night was a Black Eyed Peas cover band. Don't make me say that again. By the time they came on we had made our way to one of the balconies on the third floor, above stage right. From their we had an excellent view of the five-hundred person crowd and the Fergie impersonator's lyric sheets, which fell off their music stand and scattered themselves over the stage halfway through "My Humps." Then it turned out I had made my way into a "private party" area because a security guard told me I had to leave the private party area, which had been clearly demarcated by a pair of couches and some kids who were wearing nicer clothes than me. Strangely, the two female friends I had been standing next to on the balcony were not similarly threatened.

This was fine because I could content myself with sitting at an empty table in this empty third-floor gallery and, on a large television, watching music videos that did not correspond to the music being played. Every third video featured David Guetta.

Adventures in Rhythm: The National Ear

If you walk around in Mexico City with your ears open, you will discover a great divide in popular musical tastes. The music that you hear on buses, in markets, at gas stations, or anywhere that working-class Mexicans are playing their tunes is usually going to fall into one of two categories. On the one side are cumbia and salsa, two Afro-Caribbean styles that are usually played when people want to dance or think about dancing. On the other side are banda and norteño, both native Mexican styles that initially sound kind of like "mariachi" music played with drums and synthesized trumpets.

You might compare this divide to the country/hip-hop dichotomy in the US. A Mexican friend of mine told me that he doesn't remember so many people listening to banda and norteño until a few years ago, when it exploded in popularity, as a kind of nationalistic expression. A non-Mexican friend told me she was driving with a Mexican couple in their car when some banda came on the radio. "Ugh, change that naco stuff," one of them said, naco being Mexican slang to describe someone low-class or with low-class tastes. Wikipedia says that norteño exploded in popularity starting in the '90s as the Mexican-American population took off.

I don't really know about all that, but this music video kind of sums up the whole situation. It's about a Mexican dude who used to be into cumbia and then switched to banda, with an outfit to match. It's called "Traiter." It's a cumbia, but there's a nice little example of banda at the beginning, and the very end.

Antiquariana: The Ringling Brothers Route Book, 1892

Introducing their astounding Impalement Act, also their beautiful Flageolet and Tambourine Solo, in Romana Compagna Costume. A great feature and astonishing sensation, fit for any Circus or Combination. Princely and magnificent wardrobe. A leading feature with Ringling Brothers’ World’s Greatest Shows. Address care of New York Clipper.

I don't remember how I found this, but it's amazing. It's written by one of the Ringling Bros.' jugglers, who dedicates it thusly:

To my girl, whoever she is, and wherever she may be, this little volume is respectfully dedicated.

P. S.

As my girl has gone clear back on me since writing the above,  I respectfully dedicate this book to “Hey Rube, King of the Sawdust,” Who never went back on a Circus man.

and concludes his introduction with the following words:

No doubt there are lines that might have been blue-penciled, and perhaps, as in case of the man with the second concert announcement, there is “something I forgot to mention.” My business as a circus juggler would hardly require me to juggle the English language, and besides there are spots on the sun and flies on Nancy Hanks.

Good one! Nancy Hanks! I don't know who that is...

Within the Route Book, you can find out about the various circus personnel, including Rhoda Royal, Superintendent of Ring Stock; Charles W. Roy, Superintendent of the Chandelier Department; and C.F. Ryan, Superintendent of Pinkerton Detectives; Fred Ehlers, Tonsorial Artist; and Lawshe, King of Ice-water; the Sleeping Car Department, the Mechanical Department, and all the inhabitants of Car No. 4, "The War Eagle"; the horsetent men, the side show canvasmen, and the ring makers; the four cages of lions, the gnu, the hippopotamus den, and Demon the Hairless Horse; the waiters; the Midnight Lunch Cafe staff; Joseph Levis of the Running Dogs and Two-Horse Act; Signor Arcaris of the Impalement and Musical Acts; John Moncayo, the Boneless Wonder; and C.H. Clark, General Performer; the Leapers and Tumblers, the Four Horse Chariot Drivers, and the Lady Jockeys...the list is nearly endless.

Then comes the circus juggler's journal...

Spanish Lesson: Son of Sand

(Scene: A pair of hammocks in Oaxaca.)

Friend with British accent: How do you say "sand...?" As in "sand of the
                                                  beach?"

Mexican friend:                     Hijo de la chingada.

Friend with British accent: Really?... No, no, "sand." "Sand of the
                                                  beach."

Mexican friend:                     Sí. Hijo de la chingada... O hijo de puta.

Friend with British accent: No, "sand..." Of the beach...

Mexican friend:                     Sí, es lo que dije, no?

Friend with British accent: That's "son of..." Never mind.

Mexican friend:                     Bueno...no entiendo.

Mexico City: Scenes—Lost Avocados

Dear Cleaning Lady:

Please stop putting my avocados in the refrigerator. If I had wanted my avocados to be cold and inedible, I would have put them there in the first place. I always thought Mexicans were avocado experts, but you have greatly injured this conviction and proven a disappointment to your country.

Sincerely,
A.D.

Stranger with You: Permanent Horoscopes

The horoscope on the matchbox tells me that because I am a Scorpio, "Today your thought is unaware and tends to use evasive or misleading tactics in communication." Then again, it said that yesterday too.

Everyone's a Critic: Stars and Criminals

"If I hadn't been an actor, I've often thought I'd have become a con man and wound up in jail."
—Marlon Brando


"They experienced failure after failure after failure, and decided that rather than being a 'nobody,' they wanted to be a 'somebody.' "
—Robert Fein, on people who attempt to assassinate politicians

Elsewhere in Mexico: Ancient Dinosaur Art, Artisanal Bread, and the Art of the Hoax in Acámbaro

Shreds and Clippings was a bit sparse on writing during August and September, and here's why: I visited a small central-Mexican town that is home to a collection of alleged pre-Hispanic sculptures that depict dinosaurs, camels, and extra-terrestrials, and were discovered by a German amateur archaeologist in the 1940s. Then I wrote an article about it.

The article is out now, in the November/December 'Art' issue of the Believer. The town where the figures were found looks like this:

The museum that houses the figurines looks like this:

And the sculptures look like this:

Adventures in Rhythm: Oh Captain, My Captain. Captain Beefheart Is Dead.

With the above words my good friend JWR in Connecticut informed me that one of the most creative musicians of the last fifty years died today.

It's strange because during the past six months I've been going through a bit of a personal Beefheart revival, after not listening to his music for years. In April, for Vice magazine's 'fine art' issue, I proposed interviewing Don Van Vliet, who devoted himself to painting since he gave up music and being Captain Beefheart in the early 1980s, but one or more of the editors didn't like the idea. Or they just realized that it would have been impossible since Van Vliet lived somewhere in the Mojave Desert and virtually never granted interviews. When he did he conducted them by fax.

In the meantime I satisfied myself by finding live performances of Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band on YouTube. Among the best of these was a set of performances taped for French television in 1980 (one of which was featured on this blog recently), just before he stopped making music.

There are two funny things about these performances. One was that the Captain is much thinner than he was during his 1960s blues-ringleader days. Later I read that he just wanted to 'try out' being fat for awhile.

The other is that, as much as you have to thank French television for putting on so original an artist well after the height of his fame (whatever that means), you realize that they didn't really get it—in the way that I think the French have never exactly gotten American rock and roll. At the beginning of each song, a title appears on screen, and beneath that, in parentheses, "Van Vliet"—as if "Safe as Milk" was an old jazz standard composed by some Tin Pan Alley scratcher. After two songs, you kind of expect something other than "Van Vliet" to show up under the title of the next song, but I don't think Captain Beefheart ever felt compelled to do covers. The French station titles one song "Bat Chain Pullet," which clearly makes no sense, since the song is called "Bat Chain Puller."

But the best thing about these performances is that Beefheart has thrown off the warped blues trappings of his 60s and 70s bands, and actually sounds more unique than before. Even more you realize he never queued his musicians. The violent stops and starts no longer sound random—though they never were—and are now simply shocking.

So long, shiny beast of thought.