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A couple was having a very public fight, first in a restaurant (asked to leave), then up and down the streets, then in a bus (kicked out). Nobody probably knew what the heck was going on, because no-one probably understood the language. Agent Nova did, and between the man randomly drooling in between rants, he was in some sort of hot water that was going to cost him money he did not have. All of a sudden (either fed up with his stubbornness, his inebriation, his drugged up mind, his wrath) the woman takes his brand new suitcase and dumps it in the garbage and storms away. Seeing the perfectly fine looking suitcase dumped in there, handle extended out, would have provoked a  “If you see something, say something” reflex in many a New Yorker who hadn’t seen the fight. I started wondering what was in the suitcase. Now I was in Pulp Fiction.

Eventually, they came back for the suitcase, but it was a 15 minute gamble; one person witnessing the spectacle already had their eyes on the can.

It was a very strange story to play out on the streets- the man was from another era and another continent, the woman too. They were so misplaced. And the suitcase looked so strange sitting alone in the garbage. I suppose it isn’t much of a surprise that Random Sh*t in an Urban Garbage usually has a Random Story behind it.

Other Random Sh*t in the Urban Garbage?

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This is not a new book, just something I picked up with interest as someone who has lived in Athens for a few years as part of an Urban Odyssey. Publishing the book might have been a rush job trying to capture the market of the 2004 Athens Olympics when Modern Greece suddenly was on people’s minds (anticipated failure, complaints, etc, like most media here seems to be about Greece). Consider this book the anti-romantic portrait of modern Greece. If you loved Greece before you read it, you might hate it after you finish reading 142 easy-reading pages of this book. Written by a native Greek who left when he was 10 years old, who paid yearly visits there growing up and spent 3 months living there in part as a personal journey, in part to write this  book… it basically puts a magnifying glass on all of the flaws of the modern Greek state, its people and, it seems (it can be that dark) their souls. Take all the bad, post it on pages like a collage, provide minimal analysis and you’ve got this book. This is not to say what the author speaks about is not true… indeed the most depressing aspect of this book, as a once-ago resident who lived in and with many of the groups the author describes, is that what he talks about is real. In falling in love, did I ignore the monster? I don’t think so but the book shakes you up, even though it is a tad bit unfair, it is so very superficial in some ways (but not in that it presents a glimpse into the “native” life that tourists might not ever see). It is harsh. Maybe it has to be. I know there is more to Greece than this, but then again… Sigh… if only life were as simple as Ode to Frappes and a sun-filled life…

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Inwood, Manhattan, NYC 2010

This little grandpa doesn’t let age stop his Schwinn Bike Club need. He rolls around Inwood in his PR-pimped quadricycle blasting salsa classics and tooting a horn.

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Railroads cut through some interesting places, unlike the terrifying view of clouds above a very-far-away earth, or the monotony of a never-ending concrete highway with spotted lines (that will hypnotize you if you stare at them too long). On the train, you cut through some pretty amazing places of nature, cross over rivers, fields… and see the scars of human habitation and time.

Lest you leave with a romanticized view of the railroad, it is when your eyes are above the railroad horizon that all seems serene. Lower your eyes to what lives right beside the railroad track and you begin to wonder when the great comet of the apocalypse will come raining down on us as punishment for being born human.

Life along the railroad tracks is pretty grim. It is as if humans can’t resist throwing all their waste down any type of slope or cliff. Though I am willing to consider that floods of water may also be the culprit, the evidence is pretty convincing; the household garbage that splays out from the houses along the railroad all seem to carry the fingerprint of the litterer. You can see it in how the shreds of plastic, tattered clothes, fast food containers all hang from the sides like someone’s squeezed out shit.

There are so many houses abandoned by the railroads.

There are so many graffiti murals on the railroad track walls that block the garbage from the tracks- it is like a 3 hour journey through an art museum. It reminds me of when we had those mini-murals in the tunnels of the D train. Are they still there?

How many factories do you see? Dated machinery from an industrial age that is leaving behind now only skeletons?

Looking out the window of an Amtrack train is like reading a book, or writing one in your mind.

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Once again I was not able to get myself out of bed at the crack of dawn, shuffle to the packed train, and join the mass of out-of-towners with their spawn in tow and witness the spectacle of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I’m not hating on the parade. My childhood memories are filled of being dragged out of bed to go to it (after staying up late having visited the balloon set up the night before). Really I just wanted to go because it meant a container of hot chocolate and perhaps a visit to a Greek diner for some scrambled eggs. And we didn’t go to the musical orgy on 34th street- we kept it real as a parade should be enjoyed: people passing you, you cheer hooray! and then you walk away.

That said I watched some of it on TV this morning, not with child wonder eyes but as an anthropologist. We all know this, but either this year’s new balloon additions drove the message home more or things are getting worse: it is a parade of raw Dinsey packaged consumerism! All I got from watching that parade was what movie is coming out soon (Smurfs, 2011), whose CD is coming out next (Andrea Bociello Christmas albums and a plug for the opening musical, White Christmas), what retro toys are making a comeback (Care Bears?!) and that Planter’s Peanuts (making a cameo in his Monopoly Man tux) is now being made with sea salt. The recipe Macy’s uses is the same witchcraft Disney utilizes to mesmerize our oh-too-innocent young seeds.

That said, I wondered what a Thanksgiving Day Parade might look like in Cuba:

• It would still be called “Thanksgiving” but with bitter sarcasm to drive the point home. “Thanks, white man, for bringing disease and genocide to the New World and strengthening the spirit of the descendants of oppression to make the revolution possible, liberating everyone, including you.”

• Now that the theme has been introduced with a wide, white banner with red letters, speaking of disease, the first line of parade marshals would be the public health servants of disease control, reminding everyone of proper hygiene, the ills of still water and the glory of vaccines. They’d wave their hands with their medical masks covering their mouths, with white and blue coats, tugging the parade’s first balloon, a giant syringe with the letters “P-R-E-V-E-N-T-I-O-N” blazened along its graduation lines, followed by “THE NEW ARMS AGAINST THE LEGACY OF COLUMBUS.”

• Next would come the float with an ode to the campesino. A giant gourd with yucca, greens, beans, eggs and young, strong looking people proudly holding adzes and rakes beside it. The balloon, of course, would be an image of the farmer himself and herself (gender equality emphasized- this aint no Grant Wood portrait) . People would clap in line with the party line, but gaze at the float, hungry.
• There would be floats that honored the Afro-Taino roots of the Cuban people.
• All floats would be pulled by farm tractors.
• The car clubs would show off their pimped out, time-machine crazy mobiles, categorized by turn of the century, 30’s 40’s and 50’s.

• Glory to the solider of the Revolution! High school marching bands would be replaced with various “Committees in Defense of the Revolution” from regions all over the island, singing, chanting (”¡En cada barrio, Revolución!” and dancing, demonstrating how the revolution is as relevant, raw and alive since the Granma ran ashore in Granma Province on December 5th, 1956. The ballon? Why a peasant man wielding a machete and shield draped in the unity star and stripes of the Cuban flag.
• Now of course Cubans also know how to have a good time (a really good time), so expect singing, bands, and dance troupes of all forms, Casino Salsa, reggaeton, Son, Danzon, cha-cha, mambo and the ever so playful RUMBA.
• Clowns would be in full force, except they would be dressed as Fat Cat capitalists with the US flag on their top hats. Their clothes would be sharp, their bow ties knotted in perfection, but they would be blindfolded with a black cloth, their blood-stained hands flayed out in front of them grasping the air, a long ball and chain shackled to their ankles. The crowd would roar with laughter, chanting, “Only revolution can free you, Sam!”
• The cherubic child star of the parade, would be, who else? Elian Gonzalez, who mysteriously is still a child, and would be periodically given the mike to thank Cuba for bringing him back home.
• The NY Thanksgiving parade ends in the mecca of consumerism, 34th street Macy’s. So where would the Cuban parade end for the big party? Why where all of Havana’s parties happen: in front of the American interest section (the former embassy). Replacing Santa Claus on his sleigh to give his saintly blessings for all to shop and trample eachother to death starting immediately after a gluttonous meal, would be ol’ Castro himself, beard and all, waving from a replica of the holy Granma, the boat that made him the Papa of new Cuba. He would chuckle, “Ho, ho, suckers! I’ve outlived all of you and the revolution is still here”.

Thus ends Nova’s Thanksgiving daydream of parallel universes.

Happy Turkey Day!

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The staff all have space uniforms. You’re given a choice of baby trip or full throttle experience from lift off to landing. Scared sh*tless, I choose the real thing. You go through a briefing (shut up who cares that I was screaming in glee and the 8 year old kid next to me was unphased). You are given an assignment in the ship (engineer, pilot, navigator, and something else). I won’t tell you my disappointment on being navigator since I can’t even drive a car and am told I fail even as co-pilot. Then you’re strapped in a space pod (claustrophobia be damned because you are trapped in that sh*t until the ride is over) with your three companions and BOOOOOOOOOOM. You watch a screen that f ing convinces you that you are lifting off, and you are stuck to your seat unable to move from the force. Apparently you are in a centrifuge but the screen tricks your body that you are where your eyes tell you.

Apologies for screaming Mother F*cker with that 8 year old engineer next to me (who might have been choking in his own vomit from the sound of it). The computer gives you prompts as to when you are supposed to push specific buttons for the ship to work. I made sure to yell to the 8 year old engineer to make sure he knew what to do.

I had two tasks- hitting thrusters to use the moon’s gravitational force to pivot to Mars, and then I think to redirect the ship to avoid an asteroid… I completed the first task…. but failed the second. I can’t tell you how traumatized I am from that. And here’s the other kicker. When we f ing finally crash landed the ride was over, leaving us… ON MARS! HOW CAN THEY DO THAT after convincing us it was real?

Mission:Space. If I’m ever lost, look for me on Mars. I’m somewhat convinced Disney left me there in their own Martian version of Disney World.

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Hail the hustle in Cuba! Done with a straight face, intelligence and craft, you got to respect it. Recognize and ascertain whether you should accommodate the hustle. How much is it for you to loose this battle? Can you acquiesce without being cheated and everyone’s dignity maintained? If not say, “I respect the Hustle”, then walk away.  If acquiescing you have a choice of either remaining a passive participant, or leaning close to the Hustler and whispering with a tilted head and squinted eye, “Asere. Don’t try to hustle me. I got you anyways.”

More to come on some specific hustles.

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One curious site in Havana Vieja was the abundance of little hot dogs walking around. All types: the standard straight-up weiner (pictured), the spotted mutt- dogs that don’t look that they should be hot dogs but somehow are.

I have to say I had a moment when eating out and reading a menu. Listed was “perro caliente”… Within the context of a country of poor resources together with the images of all these little weiners walking around, my heart sank, until C-mixto explained that the translation works the same in Spanish as in English. A bunned, not fur, hot dog.

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