Of Grenadines and Rose’s

There was a time when grenadine was made from the fruit the French call le grenade — the pomegranate.  The historic recipe was pomegranate juice, sugar, and perhaps the small addition of other fruits and aromatics.  In most quarters now, certainly in the United States, “grenadine” always means Rose’s Grenadine produced by the self-explanatory beverage conglomerate Dr. Pepper Snapple Group (DPSG), based in Plano, Texas.  The company has a near monopoly on the grenadine market in North America and the Caribbean.

grendadines

Rose’s “grenadine” (I will drop the quotation marks around the DPSG product in subsequent mentions for readability) is, unfortunately, the standard corporate chemical concoction.  Its eight unappealing ingredients — components really — are, in order by volume, (1) high fructose corn syrup, (2) water, (3) citric acid, (4) sodium citrate, (5) sodium benzoate, (6) FD&C Red #40, (7) “natural and artificial flavors”, and (8)FD&C Blue #1.

The taste is thin and over-sweet, with a gruesome chemical bite.  Rose’s grenadine can dye antique porcelain near-permanent red, and we can only wonder at what the “natural” bit of the flavors might be. It’s worth noting that DPSG also produces Hawaiian Punch®.

Even in France, modern grenadine is sometimes red, containing little or no pomegranate.  But it is made with real (various red) fruits.  Natural vanilla is often added.  Middle-eastern suppliers produce deep-purple varieties rich in pomegranate and flavor.

In the US, pomegranate juice concentrate, available from the POM company, is very close to historic and actual grenadine.  As is the company’s POM juice, available at most convenience stores.  Excellent artisanal grenadines can be purchased on Amazon.

If you want that intense red color you get with the DPSG Rose’s grenadine, then add red food coloring directly to your drink or punch — and cut out the middleman.

Ingredients listed on Rose's "grenadine"

Ingredients listed on Rose’s “grenadine”

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The Caliphate of Méxifornia

The name — to echo our politicians for a moment — of the Great State of California was invented in the early 1500′s by a Spanish author named García Ordóñez de Montalvo.  This fictional California was an island off the coast of Asia; the setting for his popular “gentlemen’s novel” Las Sergas de Esplandián (pub. 1510).  As in modern-day rap videos, Montalvo’s California was populated exclusively by nubile black women possessed of “beautiful and robust bodies” who wield lots of gold weapons and accessories.  It’s name combined the exotic concept of a middle eastern caliphate (خلافة) with, rather unsubtly, sexual gratification (-fornia).  “En toda la isla,” he wrote, “no había otro metal que el oro!” (“On all the island there was no other metal than gold!”).

The Island of California (1638)

The Island of California (1638)

It was such fabulous rumors of gold — and of similarly inclined women — that drove Spanish explorers Hernán Cortés and Francisco de Ulloa to sail the western edge of the American continent in 1530.  The Viceroyalty of New Spain planned to find (and loot) what it hoped would be the Seven Cities of Cibola. In a PR move equal to modern venture capital, the Viceroyalty optimistically named the land it found after the island in Montalvo’s then-familiar book. California, now our “Golden State,” is the only US state whose name derives from fiction.

And so it began: California as the provider of fables and fictions for the Western world.  Westward migrations came in waves: gold rushes, a great drought, and so many individual dreams.  Each changed the complexion of the state.  Through it all, the usual folks managed to hold power, and Hollywood told their stories.  Those tales rendered each decade mostly in white, and always in English.  But California’s future, like the fantasy that gave it birth, promises, finally, to be a fabulous tale told in Spanish.

Today, on the streets of the Mission District in San Francisco (the epicenter, if you will, of America’s food culture, and an export factory for hipster trends), the State name has evolved.  Various neologisms, each rich with meaning, and with factional adherents, challenge the past and predict the future of the state: “Mexifornia”, “Calexico”, “Amexica”, and, above all, a celebrated new meta-region emblazoned on t-shirts, graffiti-muraled walls, and flung, often, like a challenge: “Califaztlán.”

Califaztlán is a portmanteau in the literal sense, packed with meanings and syllables.  The idea is that a pre-Colombian Aztec(ish) empire had encompassed what is now California, Arizona, Texas, and México.  Tlán is the Aztec-language word for “place of,” and the usual suffix of Aztec city names.  “Califaztlán” packs in the idea that present-day northward migration of Mexican culture, itself a mix of the Spanish and pre-Columbian, is accomplishing a re-colonization the United States.

califaztlanThe far — and it has been alleged, race-baiting — political right originally came up with the words “Mexifornia” and “Amexica” in an attempt to entrance listeners, in the way Nancy Grace might with stories of an innocent girl’s kidnap and murder.  But Californians have made carne asada out of red talk-radio meat, embracing the x-words and featuring them on menus, clothing, cocktails, and in everyday conversation.  (As earlier gay activists did to defuse terms like “queer”)  The newfound banality of, say, “Mexifornia,” is encouraging the more fabulous constructions like Califaztlán and the handier “Aztlán” — both too high-concept a mouthful to rile the God-and-guns set.  So right-wing pundits have fallen back, of late, to another odd-sounding name that also packages immediacy, geography, and listener-fear in a few neat syllables:  NAFTA.

It is this inexorability of free movement that scares (or delights).  Imbalances no longer hold up the way they used to.  The mechanisms of information have become too accessible, fluid, transparent.  And so into the controlled vacuum of the North, a delicious chaos rushes in.  The social internet reveals much, and informs the otherwise excluded.  It offers alternatives to the tropes that have flowed from media formula-factories.  Real people appear on YouTube and Facebook, living real lives.  They now appear on the other and long-curated screens:  coupled, well-adjusted gays; unaccented latinos; blacks that do not so oddly live in Brooklyn Heights or Bel-Air.  (And, the downside: exploitative scripted-”reality” shows that conflate new transparency and old stereotypes.)

106555101_route-66-authentic-sign--mexifornia-us-1-18-gauge-steel-The fact is that the energy of California that is now, to be charitable to its traditional custodians, at least bi-lingual, radiates in every color.  The transparency we have achieved (technologically, socially) has made that impossible to hide, and so, difficult to misrepresent.  The team that won this years World Series is as much Los Gigantes as The San Francisco Giants, Los Niners (as they are known here) seem poised to win the nation’s Super Bowl.  The state’s nearly $2 trillion annual economy accounts for about 13 percent of US the economic activity.  And 75% of California’s infants are non-white.

As anyone with a catalytic converter might realize, there is, by now, some acknowledgement that what happens in California is inevitable for the rest of the nation.  And so we see the national rush to include those who, in California, are already included.  The elite who plan to thrive in the new United States are leading the charge.  In other groups, we see the resolve to entrench, to resist: the ex-New Yorker McMansion retirement communities of Arizona; the patrician networks of Boston; Wall Street; those for whom aspirational and racial are linked.  There is, of course, no future in such isolationism.  But these groups don’t care.  They hope to preserve wealth and privilege for their expected life, and they underestimate the speed of change.

In the meantime, the West roars ahead with advances in culture, technology, automotives, music, medicine, politics, film, cuisine, and, above all, social structure.  The Califaztlán, if you will, of the future is not multicultural — that old saw of a term that meant static groups co-existing in harmony — but rather a single fast-moving culture-liquid into which various traditions flow.  African-American Oaklanders may not speak Spanish (yet), but they unconsciously roll the ‘r’ in taquería as, well, everyone will.  Asian mayors have become common.  Gay shibboleths are out of closet and on late-night comedy shows.

The fluidity of this cultural recombination amounts to real intellectual capital, and it contributes the the quirky innovations that characterize the west coast: internet startups, self-driving electric cars, a dazzling culinary scene.

The traditional economy used to be dictated by financial capital.  It took lots of money to get a random idea built into a product/service/movie, and then lots more marketing money to bombard people with ads to get them to buy the often lousy result.  (This is the system that gave us the processed food of the 1990s, AOL, and Donald Trump.)

LouDobbsFinancial centers in New York and Boston pushed this scheme to ever more exotic abstractions, products became utterly divorced from utility, until finally, the finance system itself imploded in 2008.  Today, product launches are modest, sales and social media say yay-or-nay, and failures are caught early.  The West Coast is used to this model — they’ve been producing software for decades.  And people here are poised to create products and set the trends for a changing American demographic.  They are living in the place where demography already changed.  Ideas spring from a culture with less bias and more meritocracy.  Yes, some initial money is necessary, so crowdsourced alternatives like Kickstarter are steping in, kicking the traditional moneymen out of the innovation temple.

For all the marvelous glitter of the West, much of it also turns out to be gold.  There is an energy and and magic to life out here, as perhaps there always has been.  It seems obvious, as it did to Cortés and Ulloa, that the future, the treasure, and the best of life will be here — whatever you call the land.  And it is, at last, spreading East.

The latest zombie books

George Calderon's "Tahiti"

The opening page of the 1921 printing

George Calderon, a respected author and translator of the day, was already in his forties when World War One broke out.  He volunteered to fight for England anyway because, as (modern day) Boston University professor James Anderson Winn wrote he had a “strong sense of obligation”.  The numerous elegies written by his contemporaries seem to indicate he was also a pretty popular guy in scholarly and other circles.  As you read the elegies, some, to modern ears, seem to verge on adoration.

Calderon was killed at the Battle of Gallipoli in 1915.  He left behind a book he had nearly finished — a brilliant narrative detailing his visit to Tahiti (the book is out of copyright, and can be downloaded is various formats).  For at least five years, I have been looking for an actual copy of the book, out of print since, I think, the 1920s.

Copies of “Tahiti” showed up occasionally on eBay and book sites for around $350, often in only fair condition.  I created various search agents to notify me should the price drop.  And, recently, boy did it.  Amazon, Powell’s, basically everyone suddenly had copies at around $15.  Lots of copies.  Of course I bought one without asking any questions.

The copy of the book is truly a copy. The so-called “print on demand” version.

When the book arrived, I (carefully) tore open the packing to find a simulacrum of the book.  The typeface is old, the drawings faded, the cover image imperfect.  But the paper is perfect: brilliant white, utterly new and undamaged.  The book is a bound photocopy.  The cover, all the images, and the “printed” pages are all from scans (uncorrected scans, many are too-light) of one of the $350 copies I thought I was getting at a bargain.

Even the size of the book is off.  It’s obviously taller and wider than Calderon’s “Tahiti”, and each page sits surrounded by a moat a while space.  The blank books, before they are printed, are apparently designed to accommodate images of books up to a certain size.

Various “print-on-demand” companies are now specializing in creating these ghosts of books past.  At some book stores, such as the Harvard Bookstore in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a print-on-demand machine is there waiting for your order.  If the book it “out of stock”, as it would be if it were last printed in 1922, you can have it print you a copy.

The odd and feeling of holding such a book in your hand makes an e-reader seem warm and fuzzy.  The book was obviously scanned by machine, does not fit well on its too-new paper, and is stiffer than you would expect even from a new hardcover.

Worse, it plays with your expectations.  In this case, I expected an actual book, not some zombie-resurrection of Calderon.  But even in the case where you are prepared for the xeroxbook, it serves only as a constant reminder, with each page, that it is not the book.

At least the e-reader doesn’t pretend.  It’s not trying to be a book.  And now I appreciate that all the more.

Sizes start at large: Lattes, muffins, waistlines

Baked "goods" at Barnes & Noble in Penllyn, PA

Baked “goods” at Barnes & Noble in Penllyn, PA

Some weeks ago, I was talking with a well-known Catalan chef who was visiting the United States, Boston to be more specific.  She had a few observations on American food.  “The muffins are enormous.  They are as big as a fist!  Who needs to eat the much?”  she laughed.  I laughed too.  Of all the things to notice about American food, by a rather famous chef no less.  Ha ha!  I chuckled the next time I visited a Starbucks (I usually frequent more rarified bakeries in Boston).

Ask for a "small" latte, get 16 ounces.

Ask for a “small” latte, get 16 ounces.

Here outside of Philadelphia, in the mall-lined exurbs, where you have no choice, its no longer seems so funny.  It’s upsetting.   A muffin, a slice of cake, a cookie at any of the chain cafés (Starbucks, Au Bon Pain, even Panera) is huge.  All the cookies at the Barnes and Noble café are at least 5 inches across and weigh about a quarter-pound.   There are no small options, and the prices are very low.

The side effect here is that even local cafés and bakeries must respond by producing equally large items, or face habituated customers who feel shortchanged.

Yes, I do know this subject has been covered.  To continue:  Starbucks admits on its web site that one of its 4.5-inch cookies, sweetened with “anhydrous dextrose”, contains half our total daily tolerance for saturated fat, and more sugar than 8oz of Mountain Dew.  And that’s if you believe a given cookie is only 84 grams, the “serving size” on which the disclosed figures are based.  I’ll need to conduct a cookie weigh-in on my home digital scale soon.

The people here are, by and large, quite fat.  The Wall-E lifestyle of driving to malls, to everywhere really, and washing down a huge, flavorless cookie, or a massive muffin, with a “tall” latte (there is no small) produces a visible statistical effect.

All your meme are belong to them

AYB Time was when an internet meme was an oddity that somehow spoke to a narrow but deep segment of like-minded people.  Those who perpetuated the meme knew that those who would appreciate it most had something wonderfully undefinable in common.  The meme was vox clamantis in deserto — for readers not in the Latin know here, a voice crying out in the wilderness — only those who understood the cry knew how to respond, or appreciate it.

Remember AYBAB2U?   This internet meme was single badly translated line of dialog from an obscure video game (Zero Wing), by equally obscure Japanese game developer Toaplan).  In the game the standard evil-lord charatacter, who here appeared to be half-machine and half-human declares forcefully (to the player) “ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US.”

It was right after the Y2K scare. In-the-know techies who had watched the world hold its breath in collective (and now-amusing) terror as the century-clock hit midnight gravitated toward this comical image of the dated, half-machine character threatening, wth his clumsy confidence, “all your base”.

Why open source programmers, role-playing game characters, and the internet-connected assemblage of like-minded nerds so adored, and propogated the phrase in its many forms was an inside joke, and a statement:  We are in control — clumsy and nerdy as we may be.  We somehow are going to come out on top.  All your base are belong to us, you just don’t know it yet.  By 2002, the phrase was a shibboleth for this clique, and poked into popular culture in only the most subtle and insider way.

Ah, the good old days.  Internet memes now speak to everyone, and speak the same language as mass media: reality. [pullquote]The memes spread now because they are so mildly appealing to so many, not because they are so viscerally comforting to so few.[/pullquote]

Where before the meme said “this is us” to its identity-strong propagators, the meme now says “this is what others will like” to its friend-seeking, identity-weak propagators.  Memes of real significance or meaning are drowned out with a monoculture of short-lived YouTube clips.  Maybe its just becoming to easy to pass information around — and the wrong sort of people are doing it.

Mainstream media itself, of course, has become a monoculture of reality shows.  Odd how slices of every part of reality have a stunning sameness when produced for a television network.  Baking cakes is somehow identical to driving trucks through the arctic is the same as singing Whitney Houston songs.  Like Polaroid color, reality TV casts everything it sees in an eerie same-tone.

Susan Boyle, a chubby, unassuming, and unattractive person with little charisma got on a reality-show stage to snickers — and , famously (for the moment) belted out songs with confidence and some talent.  Then transforms back into a frog when done singing.  The oddity stands out in a monotony of Idol-singing, and so becomes wildly popular.

And, as is the case these days, existing popularity drives the internet memes of the moment.  Enter Lin Yu Chun, a chubby, unassuming, and unattractive person with little charisma who belts out songs (karaoke standards really) on a reality show with some talent.  He’s rather weird looking, and from Taiwan.  And he is dressed suspiciously like Susan Boyle — just add a bow tie.  As if it were necessary, he is usually called “The Taiwanese Susan Boyle”, and became known to American audiences as a nascent internet meme via YouTube.

But the mainstream US media can’t let well enough (or bad enough) alone.  Its not enough that Comcast and other US media companies want to control both the speed and the content of the internet, they also want to control the personality of the internet by drowning interesting would-be memes with manufactured junk-memes.  Like having this Lin-Yu-Chun-the-Taiwanese-Susan-Boyle sing a duet of “I Will Always Love You” with William Shatner on America’s “Lopez Tonight” show.  In the style of Whitney Houston.  With odd looks tender looks at one another that seem designed to entice bloggers to suggest a gay element to the duet. Seriously.  (Lin’s Wikipedia entry, suspected of being a shill written by media interests, is under consideration for deletion.  It may still be here.)

Of course the Lin-Shatner video being posted and reposted, sweeping through social networks and the internet itself like the virus it is, killing any evolving items that would have naturally moved to the top in due time.  There no floating to the top anymore, no natural evolution of odd and compelling ideas.  Just intentionally-created junk-meme catnip (crack?) like this.

If you haven’t seen it, unfortunately, here it is.

Michael Jackson, Friday night, Boston’s Back Bay

This Friday night, the day after Michael Jackson died, I was waiting in front of Back Bay station for about a half hour. Enough cars passed playing Michael Jackson’s music — I can probably just call him “Michael” for the remainder of the article — that the survey of his music was uninterrupted. Many Boston radio stations were playing nothing else. At the park in front of the Copley mall, there is a loud and enthusiastic sing-along to to the sound-snippets driving by: Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough, The Girl Is Mine, Billie Jean, Beat It, and Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin, and Thriller. People are moonwalking and doing that vampire dance.

I’m waiting for Wesley Morris, a writer for the Boston Globe who has been at work very late writing a piece about Michael’s relationship to race for the Sunday paper. A lot of writers at the Globe are writing a lot of articles prompted by Michael death. There’s a lot to write. As we walk down Dartmouth street, we’re talking about his article. How does his transformation reflect his and others attitudes toward race? And some other issues I didn’t quite get.

From behind us, a young woman, who is white, has overheard part of our conversation and confronts us. “Well, it doesn’t matter if he’s black or white. That shouldn’t come into it.” I don’t know exactly what she’s responding to (because I’ve also been listening to I Want you Back playing from a passing car) but she’s upset. And she looking at us. And approaching. And continuing, “That’s all people want to talk about, is plastic surgery, and kids sleepover, and all that. And its just not right because he gave us so much.” Her date, it may even be a first date, is plainly embarrassed.

I’m struck — and so is Wesley — by how very wrong it is to think we are doing anything but celebrating Michael tonight. “It made me really mad how all the news clips are of child molestation case and all that.” Wesley is quickly commiserating. “I heard the news channels couldn’t get the rights to play music clips. So they keep playing those old child molestation court case clips.” “Oh yes, fair use, they can only play 12 seconds of the video,” I offer. I need to say something.

Her face becomes more incredulous and irritated. Now she’s glaring at me. “Are you a lawyer?” A lawyer who is disrespecting Michael Jackson — is there anything worse. “No,” I may be stammering at this point, “we work for … a media company.” “Oh really?!” This is really too much for her. Did we spend all day running child molestation clips? I continue, “the Boston Globe,” as in, not-the-tv-news. She softens a bit. “It such a tragedy,” I offer. And I mean it.

So many of us spent our adult years distancing ourselves from the man who was the soundtrack to our childhood and adolescence. He gave us our MTV after school, our summer vacations, our prom, our times with our lifelong friends, our weddings, our nostalgia, and still most Saturday nights. And we questioned him, we mocked him, we laughed meanly when the New York Post shouted “Wacko-Jacko”. All at once, we all somehow know this is our time to sing along stand up for him. Even her date felt the need to step up. “They’ll never be another talent like him.” She looked up at him, and away from us. I think he’ll do alright tonight.

I’m feeling — I think we all are — the power to forgive, to absolve, to celebrate.

Pho Republique was not playing Michael Jackson music. They were playing Bob Marley. Our waiter apologized almost immediately. “We’ve been playing Michael Jackson music all night, and I just started getting so sad because … well its so terrible what happened. This seemed like the right thing to play now.” Maybe we came in at just the right time, but as I was scanning the menu, it became clear our waiter is a prophet. Bob Marley is explaining:

Won’t you help to sing,
These songs of freedom,
Cause all I ever have,
Redemption songs
Redemption songs.

In the Back Bay, we’ve been singing them all night.

Jews Kill Yet Another Children’s Show Host in Gaza?

The most popular children’s show in Gaza has a bouncy xylophone-driven soundtrack, but bunnies and other fluffy-fun lead-characters are dying more gruesomely and frequently than on the Sopranos.

The latest casualty is Assud the Bunny, a six-foot-tall smiling pink rabbit with big ears and a dancy gait who wants to “finish off the Jews and eat them“. After a year of teaching numbers, the alphabet, and a bit of debatable Middle East history, Assud the Bunny threw himself in front of an Israeli missile in his final episode yesterday. On his deathbed he invited a little girl in a headscarf to “remember him as a martyr.”

Assud the Bunny is no stranger to tragedy. He took over as host of “Tomorrow’s Pioneers” from his cousin, Nahoul the Bee, who was martyred in February 2008 by starving himself to death in front of millions of adoring viewers and his improbably human on-screen family.

Nahoul the Bee hosted the show for seven months, teaching children, among other things, how to annoy cats by swinging them around by the tail and letting go, and how to rile lions in the Gaza zoo by pelting them with stones.

The first host of the show was Farfour the Mouse, who encouraged children to drink milk and listen to their parents. Farfour also led youngsters on the show in songs about the AK-47 and led in an accompanying dance that included shouldering and firing motions with imaginary rifles.

In his final episode (June 2007), Farfour the Mouse was quite graphically punched/stabbed by actors playing Israeli officials. A young teenage girl appears afterwards and gives a martyr’s eulogy that is part teen-fan and part peer-encouragement.

But its not all fun and games at Gaza children’s television.

After “Tommorrow’s Pioneers,” a stark panel discussion is on. The “panel” is of children ages 9 to 13, and the show is hosted by a calm and smiling adult questioner. He asks questions of the children:

Host:“Do you think its natural to … blow your self up?”
Sabrine (age 17, by phone):“Yes! It’s our right!”

Host:“Martyrdom. Do you think it’s a beautiful thing?”
Walla (age 11, at table):“Yes it’s a beautiful thing. Who wouldn’t yearn for paradise?”

Host:“Would you agree with that?”
Yussra (age 11, at table):“Palestinian youth are not like other youth … they choose martyrdom.”

The children respond in a uniformly excited smiling manner, eager to please the questioner.

Even Fatah (the Palestinian party that control the West Bank of Palestine) has condemned these programs — especially the latter talk show (if parroting dogma can be called talking) that is so obviously and explicitly designed to cause children to believe life is simply an opportunity for a useful death.

Useful to Hamas, that is.

Too fat, too white, too much luggage.

Since the election of Barak Obama, a new dividing point in the ever-shortening “eras” we have in our lifetime has been placed. We now have “pre-Obama” and “post-Obama” social eras. The last era-marker , of course, was 9/11. The world at that moment became divided into “pre-9/11″ and “post-9/11″ eras.

Yet some people are remarkably immune to changing eras or “change” or any kind (Obaman or otherwise).

I flew to Philadelphia for the Thanksgiving holiday last week. The airport is a marvelous place to see living history. The fat, white, suit-clad, upper-management men, moving through the airport with a multitude of large suitcases in wheeled tow (somewhat like a planetoid moving through space with orbiting satellites) hearkens back to our pre-9/11 period.

Once they were a sign of prestige: the Pierre Cardin suitcases, the ballooning 3-piece suit, the bloated rosy face, the emaciated wife, the financial industry position, the third home. In this era, they are grossly tacky.

But not everyone can change, so they remain, and they continue through the airport, too fat, too white, and with far too much baggage.

Shooting Fish in a Barrel

In the ongoing saga of Somali piracy in the Gulf of Aden: the pirates have received over $30 million (US) in ransoms this year, oil tankers, arms shipments, and container ships have all been held hostage. And the ongoing piracy threatens to create video game shortages this Christmas.

An open question: The role of Yemen in the crisis. A map created today by the UN from its satellite surveillance of Saudi pirates opens the question of Yemen’s complicity.

Grandma Hussein (Barak’s other Grandmother) Out of House Arrest

Barak Obama placed his other grandmother in an Aung-San-Suu-Kyi-style home-arrest while the election was going on: “Family members and security officials barred the Media from accessing her.” I guess it does not help that her name is Sarah Hussein. She gets out today.

Obama’s use of his white maternal grandma as an example of an ignorant racist from another era prompted some pundits to say she has been “thrown under the bus” to score political points. Snarky comments that she recently “died from injuries from being run over by a bus” are inevitable.

Nearby cousins in Kenya also were ordered to be silent: “We were instructed not to talk to the media or anybody about the Senator”

And the Kenyan government forbade coverage of the family’s election night gathering.

Hopefully the US press will now cover what is clearly a newsworthy story: the first US President to have immediate family in another country, and in such a different culture. Especially since Obama knows his family there, visits them, and writes about how important his Kenyan roots are to him.

Not covering Kenya is as clear an example of the media’s self-censorship we’ve seen since the run-up to the Iraq War.

I wholeheartedly support Obama’s presidency. The political need to manage decent and honorable, but culturally-inconvenient family members during an election may be an unpleasant but necessary evil. In the future, I would like to see a better example from him of the kind of respect we should show for our elders and family members.

“Máncora” premiere at Sundance

For months, bloggers have been building expectations for tonight’s world premiere of Ricardo de Montreuil’s new feature film Máncora at the Sundance Film Festival. The film depicts the tribulations of a set of gorgeous young actors involved in a variety of parties and sexual combinations. While this did appear to draw some sympathetic excitement out of young partiers in the audience, it left those looking for any literary or artistic merit rather unimpressed.

The film opens with Santiago, an extremely good-looking and unaccomplished 21-year old who is too busy partying and having bathroom-stall sex to answer the phone when his father calls to let him know he is about to commit suicide. The father leaves a message — and jumps off a bridge.

Santiago finally gets the news and is very distraught. He mopes around his apartment half-clothed and refuses to answer the phone until his “sister,” Ximena, calls from New York. In a particularly clumsy bit of exposition she drones into the answering machine: “I know that I am your sister by the marriage of our parents only, and we have not seen each other for six years, but I want to see you. I am married now, and I am coming to Lima on Thursday with my husband …”

Mercifully, Santiago is moved to pick up the phone at this point, and before you know it the gorgeous by-law-only sister, Ximena, and her extremely sexy husband, Iñigo, are in the apartment all talking about who will sleep where.

The three agree to go on a road trip Santiago has planned to Máncora, a surfing town in the warm north of Peru. What follows is a litany of parties and increasing alcohol and drug use that facilitates a series of events that seems designed to substitute blood and sex for plot and substance.

At the first all-nighter, Santiago gets in a party-stopping fight then has sex with his “sister,”
Ximena. The next day, Ximena’s sexy husband, Iñigo, comes back full of accusatory innuendo (Iñigo inexplicably ran off in the middle of the road trip, of course leaving the other two alone to have sex). Santiago is then drawn into harder drugs and kinkier sex with two hot blond debutantes. The party+sex scenes get extremely long and seem to be a collection of loud music videos that are separate from the almost-nonexistent movie. Oh, and we also get to see sexy-husband Iñigo have sex with a Mexican hottie.

Yes, Ximena pouts, and Santiago mopes, and Iñigo acts crazy — but the characters are rolling-paper thin and we don’t care about them.

An hour into the movie, most of the audience is shuffling and giving rolling-eye looks to their confidants. Some of the major-newspaper film critics (we won’t name names here) have actually walked out.

It is possible there are goals of the film that are lost on a non-Peruvians. After decades of totalitarian repression, the freedom of the film’s characters to lead dissolute lives in a post-Fujimori era might paint a more compelling tableau to audiences there. But here in Park City, Utah, there is no escaping the director’s self-indulgence, which rivals that of his characters.

At the end of the showing, there was enthusiastic applause from small groups of the audience who look a lot like the characters in the movie: young well-off party kids. Most of the rest of the audience makes a B-line for the exit.