On Gabriel García Márquez (and Cien años de soledad)

It wasn’t the first book I read in Spanish, but it was one of those experiences that completely changed my life. I was completely flummoxed by a book that started with the phrase, “many years later, while standing in front of a firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that afternoon when his father took him to see ice.” Almost as good as Cervantes’ “In a place in La Mancha whose name I don’t care to remember.” You remember the books that change your life. There is a before and an after. I can still see Ursula trying to keep here crazy, scheming husband from melting down their life savings. Or Remedios, la bella, whose smell drove mean crazy. Or the seventeen Aureliano’s. Or the parchments. Or the birth of a baby with the curly pig’s tail. Or the storm which sweeps it all away as the ancient alchemist stands by watching. You cannot read this book and be indifferent about the passion of human relations. Without doing much (or any) literary analysis, I’d say that Macondo, as is the case with lots of imaginary places, is the town where you live, maybe the town you grew up in regardless of your specific geography. Towns evolve, people grow up and change, have families, and the Buendía family no different than my family or yours. What is very interesting about the Buendía family is our opportunity to witness their history, warts and all, floods, disasters, tragedies, triumphs, and the simple day-to-day things that happen in all of our lives that no one ever sees or cares about. Is magical realism real? Who knows, but then again, how many weird things have happened in your own life that seem magical but aren’t? So I read this book in Spanish over a long weekend of about three days. I couldn’t stop. The prose, as Mohammad Ali might have said, “Floats like a butterfly, and stings like a bee.” This is one of the few times I feel sorry for non-spanish speakers–you can’t enjoy the original–it doesn’t speak to you. Today, I also write as a tribute to the man who created that wonderful novel. So the author has gone, but not gone, really. The Buendía family is now immortal, as is the coronel, and the patriarch, and Santiago Nasar, and the very old man with enormous wings.

On Gabriel García Márquez (and Cien años de soledad)

It wasn’t the first book I read in Spanish, but it was one of those experiences that completely changed my life. I was completely flummoxed by a book that started with the phrase, “many years later, while standing in front of a firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that afternoon when his father took him to see ice.” Almost as good as Cervantes’ “In a place in La Mancha whose name I don’t care to remember.” You remember the books that change your life. There is a before and an after. I can still see Ursula trying to keep here crazy, scheming husband from melting down their life savings. Or Remedios, la bella, whose smell drove mean crazy. Or the seventeen Aureliano’s. Or the parchments. Or the birth of a baby with the curly pig’s tail. Or the storm which sweeps it all away as the ancient alchemist stands by watching. You cannot read this book and be indifferent about the passion of human relations. Without doing much (or any) literary analysis, I’d say that Macondo, as is the case with lots of imaginary places, is the town where you live, maybe the town you grew up in regardless of your specific geography. Towns evolve, people grow up and change, have families, and the Buendía family no different than my family or yours. What is very interesting about the Buendía family is our opportunity to witness their history, warts and all, floods, disasters, tragedies, triumphs, and the simple day-to-day things that happen in all of our lives that no one ever sees or cares about. Is magical realism real? Who knows, but then again, how many weird things have happened in your own life that seem magical but aren’t? So I read this book in Spanish over a long weekend of about three days. I couldn’t stop. The prose, as Mohammad Ali might have said, “Floats like a butterfly, and stings like a bee.” This is one of the few times I feel sorry for non-spanish speakers–you can’t enjoy the original–it doesn’t speak to you. Today, I also write as a tribute to the man who created that wonderful novel. So the author has gone, but not gone, really. The Buendía family is now immortal, as is the coronel, and the patriarch, and Santiago Nasar, and the very old man with enormous wings.

On Van Helsing

Professor Van Helsing is a tribute to rational empiricism that has met the supernatural and had to back off because the experience did not square with reality. I like Van Helsing because he is so grounded in his science and empiricism that he is the true paradigm of rational thinking and practice. Yet, Van Helsing is faced with a situation that does not fit within the neat theories and hypothesis of his enlightened scientific experience. Through observation and experimentation, Van Helsing has cast his lot in life far from emotion, superstition, irrationality, and the supernatural. He writes books, carries out experiments, teaches his classes, is a paradigm of the enlightened scientist, the rock on which we build our reality. Yet, his situation, though a completely imaginary one, is problematic in the sense that he is faced with the larger problem of a reality–an undead, dead person–that cannot exist in his world. The philosophical implications of facing the existence of Dracula are vast and troubling. You are either a rational empiricist who cannot “believe” in such things, or you abandon your empiricism and throw in with the holy water, garlic, cross, and stake. Our empiricism protects us from foolish pseudo-science such as astrology, palmistry, quiromancy, numerology, tarot, Big Foot, the Loch Ness monster, werewolves, vampires, and necromancy, but is that all there is in this world? I have always sided with Hamlet: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. – Hamlet (1.5.167-8). Still, the philosophical problem persists even if only in our imaginations, hoping against hope that we never have to face this situation in the real world.

On plastic building blocks (Legos)

I secretly desire seeing the new Lego movie. As a kid, of course, I had a modest set of Legos, blocks of all sizes, shapes, and colors. I liked the wheels because then I could build things that rolled. Not cars, really, but rolling multi-layered and multi-colored sculptures that I could consciously morph into new and bigger and more bizarre shapes. Plastic building blocks offer a challenge for both the imagination and the possible creativity that it might engender. The biggest challenge was often finding a way to keep my latest creation from coming apart and going to pieces. Symmetry was frequently an issue. Finding enough bricks or blocks of a certain color or shape is always an issue. I came to Legos early, before the introduction of the little people, so I either had to build my own people or go without a driver or pilot or Darth Vader or mechanic or fireman. My favorite piece was a giant gray slab upon which I could build many different things, but I also like the thin, white planks that were great for building wings or platforms. The tiniest of the pieces, a “one”, whether round or square, are great for little kids who want to stick something dangerous up their noses (please don’t try this–we have stunt doubles who know what they are doing), but the actual utility of these pieces is doubtful. The best part of Legos is the endless variety of things that you might build, bounded only by your imagination, time, space, and your blocks.

On plastic building blocks (Legos)

I secretly desire seeing the new Lego movie. As a kid, of course, I had a modest set of Legos, blocks of all sizes, shapes, and colors. I liked the wheels because then I could build things that rolled. Not cars, really, but rolling multi-layered and multi-colored sculptures that I could consciously morph into new and bigger and more bizarre shapes. Plastic building blocks offer a challenge for both the imagination and the possible creativity that it might engender. The biggest challenge was often finding a way to keep my latest creation from coming apart and going to pieces. Symmetry was frequently an issue. Finding enough bricks or blocks of a certain color or shape is always an issue. I came to Legos early, before the introduction of the little people, so I either had to build my own people or go without a driver or pilot or Darth Vader or mechanic or fireman. My favorite piece was a giant gray slab upon which I could build many different things, but I also like the thin, white planks that were great for building wings or platforms. The tiniest of the pieces, a “one”, whether round or square, are great for little kids who want to stick something dangerous up their noses (please don’t try this–we have stunt doubles who know what they are doing), but the actual utility of these pieces is doubtful. The best part of Legos is the endless variety of things that you might build, bounded only by your imagination, time, space, and your blocks.

On Catwoman (Julie Newmar)

The fascination for this character is extraordinary and produced one of the worst movies (Catwoman, Halle Barry, 2004) ever–horrible is generous way of describing that incarnation of the myth. The highly camp television version of the Batman story was both horrible and edgy at once, and the few episodes done by Julie Newmar in the Catwoman role are a tour-de-force in a no-holds-barred examination of blind materialism, greed, and ego. By contrast, Newmar played the role as a strong, take charge, get-it-done woman, but her character is unwilling or unable to take an ethical stand as a law-abiding citizen, which is the great tragedy of the character. Unwilling to share her loot with even a single henchman, she drugs the last one in order to keep her ill-gotten booty for herself. Appearing in thirteen episode during the show’s run, she is finally “killed off” when she falls into a bottomless chasm, unwilling to let go of a bag of silver and gold. Granted, she is supposed to be the ultimate femme fetale, curvy, beautiful, and very sexy, but she is fatal for all around her, unable to demonstrate even the slightest ounce of empathy for either friends or foes. Even though the show was rather cartoonish and production values were low by today’s standards, the script, if you could see past the silliness of it all, was really a kind of morality play populated by characters that were unambiguously either good or evil. Catwoman, though beautiful, was evil, egocentric, and sadistic. As a metaphor, Catwoman is a medieval misogynistic representation of the feminine, which is portrayed as uncontrolled animalistic emotion. Catwoman is the dark side of human behavior, uncontrolled, chaotic, and anarchic. Catwoman isn’t capable, though, of even saving herself, dying while trying to steal a bag of pirate loot. Even though the show was high camp and extremely exaggerated, the comedy only thinly veiled its criticism of poor behavior and bad choices.

On Catwoman (Julie Newmar)

The fascination for this character is extraordinary and produced one of the worst movies (Catwoman, Halle Barry, 2004) ever–horrible is generous way of describing that incarnation of the myth. The highly camp television version of the Batman story was both horrible and edgy at once, and the few episodes done by Julie Newmar in the Catwoman role are a tour-de-force in a no-holds-barred examination of blind materialism, greed, and ego. By contrast, Newmar played the role as a strong, take charge, get-it-done woman, but her character is unwilling or unable to take an ethical stand as a law-abiding citizen, which is the great tragedy of the character. Unwilling to share her loot with even a single henchman, she drugs the last one in order to keep her ill-gotten booty for herself. Appearing in thirteen episode during the show’s run, she is finally “killed off” when she falls into a bottomless chasm, unwilling to let go of a bag of silver and gold. Granted, she is supposed to be the ultimate femme fetale, curvy, beautiful, and very sexy, but she is fatal for all around her, unable to demonstrate even the slightest ounce of empathy for either friends or foes. Even though the show was rather cartoonish and production values were low by today’s standards, the script, if you could see past the silliness of it all, was really a kind of morality play populated by characters that were unambiguously either good or evil. Catwoman, though beautiful, was evil, egocentric, and sadistic. As a metaphor, Catwoman is a medieval misogynistic representation of the feminine, which is portrayed as uncontrolled animalistic emotion. Catwoman is the dark side of human behavior, uncontrolled, chaotic, and anarchic. Catwoman isn’t capable, though, of even saving herself, dying while trying to steal a bag of pirate loot. Even though the show was high camp and extremely exaggerated, the comedy only thinly veiled its criticism of poor behavior and bad choices.

On Barney Fife

The first time I saw Barney Fife, I thought he was the least-prepared man for law enforcement I had ever seen. Not that Mayberry needed a lot of law enforcement. Crime was not running rampant through the streets of this small town, but Andy Taylor did need a deputy to help keep his town in line–they did have at least one drunk, and you never knew when someone or something might escape from the big city of Mount Pilot. And, of course, there was always traffic trouble in Mayberry, but it was never clear that they even had a stoplight to run. What with all the gossip going on the Floyd’s barbershop, one had to work hard to keep up with local gossip, but Barney was always hanging around trying to be useful, earn his keep, so to speak. Perhaps what was most appealing about Barney was his complete lack of ability in law enforcement. Barney was not tall, skinny to the point of boney, nervous as a cat in a rocking chair factory, brave but not tough, not skilled with firearms (he wasn’t allowed to put a bullet in his gun). He knew the letter of the laws, but it was always Andy who did all the implementation and actual law enforcement. Yet, there was an ideal innocence to Barney which made him the perfect deputy. If you could believe that Barney was a deputy then you had to believe that there was always hope for the human race. Barney was an Everyman, a man that has existed through the millennium who has always acted in good faith, is loyal and supportive, is a friend who you might invite to your house or perhaps even let date your sister. Barney’s great failing, if one might call it that, was his inability to recognize evil when it stood right in front of him. He always thought the best of people as if he had never really known evil at all. To meet a completely innocent man, one free of cynicism and malice, one who’s heart is pure even in the face of a decadent society. In this way, he is a totally unique character to be admired and contemplated. His main job, however, was comic relief. His character in a deeper sense was that of clown, a janus with two faces–one laughing, the other crying. Barney is about the hopes and dreams of everyman who has a job and is trying his best to make a go of things. His desire to be a good policeman caused him to suffer a great deal of anxiety even if he never understood that crime in Mayberry was not a pressing problem. He had difficulty in carrying himself off as an authority figure, and his fellow citizens often laughed at him as he tried to carry off the gravitas necessary to be a good deputy. His attempts at being serious frequently led him into silly situations where his pretend bravado was often funnier than just acting normal. Not much of a lady’s man, I was intrigued by the women he dated, but then again, in Mayberry bachelors probably came at a premium. Instead of problematic, I realized that although Barney did not reunite the requisite qualities of a stereotypical lawman, he did bring a uniquely human perspective to the job that gave him a special edge as deputy. It wasn’t that Mayberry needed a strong-arm law man, but they did need a man who understood the question of being human, which for them, was much more important. Skinny, trembling, nervous, Barney Fife was ideal in almost every way for helping to maintain law and order in the thriving metropolis of Mayberry.

On George Takei

I was only six when I first saw Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu at the controls of the Starship Enterprise. This was the first time when I realized the world was a complicated place made up of many different people all working toward a common goal. Yes, Kirk sat in the captain’s chair, but difference and alterity made no difference in the make-up of the crew: an African communications officer who was also a female, a Russian pilot, a Vulcan science officer, a Scottish engineer. In 1965 this was all you could do on television to promote a world in which color, gender, and age (Chekov, very young, Bones, obviously older) made no difference. The homogenous society of my youth–Waspy en extremus, was not really the way the world was shaped. Lieutenant Sulu, the helmsman of this massive ship, cerebral, confident, self-assured, tough, but he was obviously Oriental and not a part of my world. The show demonstrated how important diversity was in the middle of the American civil rights conflagration that was tearing up the country–marches, demonstrations, sit-ins, protests. Even as the show aired, integration was slowly becoming a reality across the entire nation, changing the way we think about everything in our society. Sulu was emblematic of our changing times in which we began to stop judging people by the color of their skin or racial designation. As people we are hard-wired to notice difference, but the superficial differences between peoples are less different than we either know or suspect. The Human Genome project has tracked all humans back to African to about a quarter of million years ago when we all enjoyed a common gene pool and common ancestors. The bridge of the Enterprise is where all of those superficial physical differences stopped being important. Of course, the bridge crew was not perfect–few women in non-traditional roles, Uhura sometimes seemed to be a glorified telephone operator, and the captain’s yeoman, Janice Rand, was rather secretarial, and the head nurse, Chapel, was also a woman, but they were a start. This was, however, 1965, and you can’t change everything at once. In the Next Generation incarnation of show, the bridge crew would be both more diverse and more integrated, a sign that the eighties had already been strongly affected by the show from the sixties. Sulu was about alterity, about difference, about tolerance, about being different but, at the same time, being a part of the whole. American television series of the sixties did not generally have “different” characters. Shows like “Gunsmoke” or “Medical Center” or “My Three Sons” were shows almost exclusively about white males. I remember how surprising it was to see a black doctor on “Emergency”, but that was already in the mid-seventies. Today, George Takei is still about difference, still about alterity, still about being different. How refreshingly wonderful. Let’s all break the mold, throw our expectations to the wind, and start to live life as if being different were no big deal.