Following the fish

I’ve been a fan of Pico Iyer’s essays for a while now, in part because he is one of the most talented travel writers around (I think one of my first blogs was about him). He has a meandering, thoughtful style with words, and a history of travel of the sort where he becomes a resident, not just a visitor to a new place.
Reading his piece in the Magazine this Sunday (Net time is oddly out of sync with real time), I’m drawn into the speculative proposition that American movies have completely abandoned the happy ending in their portrayal of daily life, at the same time that politicians, in their speechmaking, campaigning, prognosticating, have embraced it.

He has, this year, lots of support for this, Mystic River being just one of a multitude of movies where bestiality gets compounded, never resolved, and no one is spared in the end. Contrast this, Iyer says, with the campaigning in Democratic primaries, or even speechmaking coming from the White House.

Okay, but has Hollywood gotten an accurate read on the American pulse? Or has it just been a momentary letting go of the cliché, almost as a eulogy to the tragedy that was September 11th, because at the time, who could even think of a favorable outcome?

The feel-good movie is, these days, not a very good movie (though the Academy is pretending that DKeaton really was superb in her role as the aging lover). And it remains cool to speak well of movies that offer a spiraling disintegration rather than a good resolution. Personally, I thought Mystic River was outstanding, but I also thoroughly enjoyed “Runaway Jury,” even though I admit, it was a bit of a packaged deal. I was pleased when a law prof, soon to be Dean at a top law school in the country showed it to his Civil Procedure class and said enthusiastically “wasn’t that great? I just loved that movie!” or words to that effect.

While we’re all trying to stay so cool and display our astute levels of awareness, Hollywood is watching. The good dramas that offer no hope have always been there, and they’ll continue. What’s missing now is the proliferation of antidote movies – ones that hold out the possibility of resolution, at least for that moment, while they have our attention. The politicians have long figured out that deep down, in the larger scheme of things, we are believers in justice, equality, love, fairness even if we’ve managed to encounter just the opposite in our lives.

It’s interesting that the one movie not dismissed by critics this year that offered hope, was one that took 90 minutes of anxiety and worry before it got there. Of course, the movie was “Finding Nemo,” brilliantly executed, down to the last flip of the fin. But only in animation is the best of the best backing exuberance over defeat, happiness over depression. I’m hoping Nemo will not be an anomaly. Great movies should span the range of emotions we’re capable of living with.

Nicknames for cities

Doug Moe (Cap Times today) has had it with the “Mad Town” nickname for Madison. He likens it to the days of calling San Francisco “Frisco,” or “Berserkley” for.. okay, how obvious can you get. He writes: “-- Can we knock it off? Madison doesn't need a nickname. Slogans and nicknames are for the Beaver Dams of the world. ‘Beaver Dam: Home of 15,000 Busy Beavers.’ No doubt.”

Moe says that only outsiders give cities bizarre labels and nicknames (he claims no one here would say “I live in Mad City”). But I think it’s the imagery that disturbs him most. He recalls the following exchange he had: "Where you from?" "Madison, Wisconsin." "Mad Town, huh? Man, I got knee-walking drunk there one time."

He’s wrong in thinking, though, that locals don't use city nicknames. I lived in the “windy city” for 6 years and heard those words over and over again. I had moved there from the “big apple.” Another city with pride. Perhaps a touch too much pride. Now I’m in the “cheese state,” logging in years in “Mad City…” The nicknames are not cool sounding. But face it, they’re kind of fitting.

What is a hamburger?

Any child can tell you a hamburger has nothing to do with ham. Most think it originated in Hamburg. It stands to reason. But at least two places in the States claim that they invented the classic hamburger: Louis' joint in New Haven, CT (it's still there), and the County Fair at Seymour, WI. The latter even has a “Hamburger Hall of Fame”.

We understand the hamburger to be ground beef, typically chuck, rarely sirloin or top round or top anything. Cheap, predictable, ubiquitous, served with a dollop of slow moving ketchup and snuggled into a white bread bun (let’s be purists here).

None of these descriptors can be applied to chef Michel Trama’s specialty: a foie gras hamburger with a cèpe mushroom-based catsup called "Ketcèpes" (c’est original!). Trama is chef at Les Loges in France. Today, the Red Michelin Guide released its ratings for 2004, and Les Loges (along with two other restaurants in France) joined the elite 24 eateries that are members of the three-star club. How significant is that? Last year, when it was rumored that the 3-star La Cote d’Or may have a star taken away, the chef committed suicide.

But what exactly is the definition of a foie gras hamburger? Is there a white bread bun? Does the Ketcepes pour slowly, just like the Heinz counterpart? Is it cheap? Served with fries that are “liberte”? Was McDonald’s even consulted?

Crossing the line

A day in the life of a wired person: a handful of quick email messages, a quick post, and another – the opportunities to say something stupid and potentially offensive are endless.

A London-based office of an American law firm is taking the rap for an email sent by one of its partners, where, in response to a request to adopt a puppy, the lawyer wrote “don’t let that dog go to a Chinese restaurant.” The firm and the partner are still apologizing. The Asian Pacific American Law Student Association and a large, wired legal community (the incident was posted on a blog) responded quickly, with anger and a determination not to let the matter go unnoticed.

I have heard many in other countries mock the American “obsession with political correctness.” It seems, however, that PC is only an unleashing of a freedom to finally underscore grievances that had been festering for years. There is the hope that truly offensive speech is going to be put to rest, and that by reacting to the “somewhat” offensive speech (representing perhaps buried feelings of racism or sexism or any other –isms), we will instill greater vigilance over what we say and do to others.

In my first blog post, I worried that what would seem an okay post at the time of publishing would not appear okay to the reader, and that I’d regret publishing it. Yesterday, I posted two things that I later decided were potentially offensive. Toward the end of the day, I pulled one off, just in case (and thanked the stars that only one reader had had the opportunity to read it), and left the other because the damage was done, and I already apologized to the slightly offended person.

Just in the last week, I have taken pot shots at Iowa, Fed Ex, Wisconsin, my mother, and countless people in government. I’m still not sure which of those, if any, might have touched a raw nerve. Clearly Laura Bush would have been offended (see post, February 6). Leno can test his jokes, a blogger cannot. That’s the down-side of self-publishing. And the fact is, sometimes you’re so focused on a theme [Bukowski was one weird dude], or on spelling [why doesn’t literati have two t’s?], and always, always on the clock [like right now: this is taking too long, I need to get back to work] that you completely don’t notice potentially offensive peripherals. After more than a month of blogging, I am still worried. But I remain cautiously optimistic that I can be sensitive to the known and unknown reader. And if I fail, I’m sure you’ll let me know.

For the “Pole” in you..

What historical circumstances account for the stereotypical caricature of the “dumb Pole?” I imagine much of it can be attributed to the large wave of immigrants that came to the States in the first half of the twentieth century. They were disproportionately from the south (every mountain family in Poland has a cousin in Chicago), disproportionately uneducated, deeply religious, and of course, poor.
If you ever pick up a thread with Polish jokes, they will always be of this type:

In America, they say it's 10:00 do you know where your children are?
In England, they say it's 10:00 do you know where your husband is?
In Paris, they say it's 10:00 do you know where your wife is?
And in Poland, they say it's 10:00 do you know what time it is?

The format almost never varies. There is a Pole, and there are others. The others act with logic and common sense, the Pole isn’t quite wired right.

Three guys are crossing the desert (or, “dessert,” as the “smart” English writer recorded). The Englishman brings a fan, the Italian brings a squirt bottle, the Pole brings a car door. When asked why, the Englishman says “when it gets hot, I can fan myself.” The Italian answers “when it gets hot, I can squirt water on myself.” The Pole smiles and says “when it gets hot, I can roll down the window!”

Or:

Three construction workers are eating lunch. The first takes out his ham sandwich and says “if my wife packs me a ham sandwich again, I’ll go out on a ledge and jump off!” The second one takes out his ham sandwich, groans in disgust and says “me too: if she packs me ham again, I’ll do the same.” The Pole takes out his ham sandwich and says “yeah, I’m with you guys.” Next day they’re out eating lunch on the site again. The first one takes out his sandwich, opens it up and finds chicken. He smiles and eats with relish. The second unwraps his sandwich, finds roast beef, grins and eats it up. The Pole opens up his, finds ham, gets up, walks to the ledge and jumps. “I feel sorry for him” says his buddy. “Why?” asks the other. “Because he packs his own lunch.”

And so on.

Even though the immigrant pool from Poland changed completely after the Second World War, the impact of this second wave on American humor was marginal. In Poland, on the other hand, humor absolutely burgeoned in this post-war period. But only for a while. Recently, Urban, a respected Polish journalist, observed that “free speech marks the death of humor.” He goes on to say that 30 years ago, all you had to do was stand up in a cabaret, do some imitations of a Russian, and you’d have the whole room rolling on the floor. These days, laughter doesn’t come easy. I’d have to agree with that. Jay Leno has a staff pulling out several hundred jokes each day for the Tonight Show. Leno picks out those he thinks have potential to amuse. Many are then coaxed to the max, yet they hardly produce even a ripple. I gave Leno a chance the other day. Here’s one from this past week:

Did you hear that Wisconsin has just passed a law giving a tax break to those who donate an organ [this is true, btw]? An organ? From Wisconsin? The cheese state? We want to use hearts with all those clogged arteries? That’s just what I would want if I needed a transplant!”

Like I said, humor meted out on a daily basis is a challenge.