Ep 33: The Merry Mexican; we must all bow before the light

Who came first? Our culture o Cantinflas?

Monday, May 13

Last night, for our Mother's Day dinner, we sat below a large portrait of "Cantinflas", Mexico's all-time greatest comedian.

Film star of the forties, fifties and sixties, he is a legend through most of Latin America. His filmography spans six decades, from 1936 until 1982.

As I was trying to explain to Sidney, he is as funny as Jim Carrey and Will Ferril combined. In truth, his genius is more like a combination of Jerry Lewis's antics, Robin William's wit, the verbal dexterity of Matt Damon, and the linguistic innovation of Shakespeare. Charlie Chaplin once commented that he was the best comedian alive.

His unique manner of talking is known as Cantinflada and during his heyday it was not uncommon for Spanish speakers to say "¡Estás cantiflando!" whenever someone became hard to understand in conversation. La Real Academia Española officially included the verb, cantinflear, cantinflas y cantinflada in its dictionary in 1992.

Born Mario Alfonso Fortino Moreno Reyes in 1911 in Mexico City, Cantinflas was a champion of the working class and impoverished both on and off the screen thorough his political and charitable deeds. His talent and good deeds ultimately made him a folk hero throughout Mexico and for several generations.

In 1993, after his death from lung cancer, thousands appeared on the rainy day for his funeral in Mexico City. The ceremony was a national event, lasting three days. In the US, he is honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

In essence, as I ate my chile rellono smothered in mole, I realized that Cantinflas is the epitome of "The Merry Mexican," who accepts the harshness of life with a grain of salt, adds a squeeze of limón y chile to make it flavorful and is more than happy to laugh at himself, especially if he can simultaneously make fun of others who take themselves too seriously.

The epiphany got me wondering, "Who came first? Cantinflas or our cultural reputation for eternal cheerfulness?"

I'm apt to believe that Mr. Moreno merely embodied and projected the gnawed-up apple core of our culture; much like Vicente "Chente" Fernandez, Mexico's greatest living singer has interpreted the sappier side of how we handle life and it's endless bounty of little glories and it's occasional gush of lovelorn tragedy.

I also like to think that in my own small and somewhat-humble way, I too manifest my heritage with my optimism in spite of other's obstacles; a youthful wit that admittedly lies dormant beneath 14 years of angst-ridden and impatient parenting; the counter-corporate funny fotos of my family that I have hanging in my office; and my humility in the light of life...

...for, in the end, we must all bow before the light.

Some of the counter-corporate fotos of my family
that I have up in my office that show that
I am indeed a merry Mexican...

Ep 32: Running down Requa; the wrong side of the mountain

God bless America! We're slated to hit 77 in NYC today.

Friday, May 10

Running down Requa I caught a glimpse of the majestic mist hanging over the Hudson.

I wanted to soak it in, but I was running, late for the train.

My lament lasted only a few minutes because five minutes after our first stop the entire river was swallowed up by a magical blanket of fog and for a moment it felt like we were either on a vintage amusement park ride or in some scene from the Shanghai Express.

Alas, there was no Marlene nor any exciting episodes with Chinese warlords, and the thrill promptly ended once we rolled into Croton-Harmon.

Speaking too soon, we slipped back under cover as soon as we left the last stop before Grand Central and the dissipating heat of flanking thoroughfares fueled by exhaust and anxiety.

The beauty of the blur lasted for many miles, past the veiled prison-town of Ossining (i.e. home to Sing Sing), past the legendary Sleepy Hollow and its headless henchman, and past the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge*, until we came into the clear between the Palisades and Croton-on-the-Hudson.

Once we sunk into the Bronx and then Harlem all hope was lost; the swaths of red brick and pale concrete reminded me that my joy ride was over.

Back to work, back to worrying about mediating teenage angst and self-interest with parental duty and the bigger picture; back to banging my head against the wall of ex-spousal indifferences; back to the aggravating concern of absent-minded and perilous childcare; back to being the stripped screw at the office; back to being a greying grown-up at the top of the mountain of my life.

The view into nothingness looked good until it cleared; perhaps I'm looking down the wrong side of the mountain.


*Spanning almost three miles it is the longest bridge in the state of New York. It was named for an American Indian tribe from the area called "Tappan"; and zee being the Dutch word for "sea".

It is right to give thanks and praise to pace of the snail;
seen running with me down Requa

Ep 29: What goes around, comes around

Monday, April 29

On Saturday morning at 4 a.m.,I woke to the sound of Milo crying. I dragged myself into the nursery, fully expecting to cuddle and carry him around for a few minutes and then put him back down to sleep, shortly thereafter.

However, when I pressed him against my chest, he was soaking wet and there was a funny smell, not readily identified as poop.

Being that I had thought this would be a routine soothing, I had left my eyeglasses on my dresser, and blindly made my way to the baby in the dark.

After placing Milo on the changing table and inspecting his diaper, which actually seemed fairly dry, I realized that something was truly amiss.

With one hand on the baby, I leaned toward the crib and made a manual inspection - his sheets were all wet and squinting I could see something dark and chunky in the middle. Finally, I realized I had no choice but to turn on the light.

There was vomit everywhere, on the sheets, on his PJs, in his hair.

Milo, as usual, was handling all the trauma quite well. I picked him up and took him to take a shower.

While we were cleaning up, Chelsea came to inspect what was going on. After we dried off the baby and dressed him again, we put him in bed with us.

Of course, he threw up again. Ugh.

My immediate thoughts were that we had overfed him.

Earlier that evening we had chosen to eat out instead of at home, because our dining room was filled with furniture from the adjoining living room and parlor, while the recently refinished floors dried.

I had also been eager to try some of the local restaurants in Peekskill and our neighboring townships too .

Using Yelp, we chose to try Taormina, a shabby chic nouveau Italian joint, that at first, and second, glance, looked like the kind of place where the working class go to have a nice dinner.

I was immediately impressed by their martini - dry, with just a hint of vermouth; filled to the rim. And most importantly, the food was good too - butternut ravioli , chicken martini and chicken napolitano.

Despite the discovery of a piece of plastic in Chelsea's dish, I would give this place high ratings.

If anything the only low marks for the evening were against me and my lack if restraint. I vividly recall the frenzy I was feeling that led me to over indulge when dessert was served:

"Adela do you mind if I try some of your lava cake ?"

"Um, baby are you done with your carrot cake?" [That would go well with the vanilla ice cream...Hmmm, should I finish my cannoli...?]

All the while, I was so entranced that I was compelled to share tiny bits and pieces with Milo, even though he had eaten plenty already.

Ironically, I had filed a story at work earlier that afternoon about the obesity epidemic occurring across this country. Three fourths, 3 out of 4, of all adults are overweight - half of those are considered obese. The stats are sadly similar for children. As a result, children born today are very likely to live shorter lives than both their parents and grandparents.

Ugh, hence my eventual guilt over this mess.

Nonetheless, I'm not too worried because we are blessed to have Adela cook for us - she prepares fairly healthy meals in small portions.

Well, that was Friday.

As per the awful smell of his diaper my wife, Dr. Chelsea, suspected it was actually a virus with some fancy name that she liked repeating all weekend long.

Alas, the virus did not like her and poor Chelsea - : ( - had to contend with it last night while working overnight at the hospital.

She called me this morning from the ER, where they were giving her fluids via IV. She said the room where she tried to sleep in last night looks like a war zone. As awful as I feel for my 5 month pregnant wife, I'm sure glad I don't have to clean up that mess...

Since Milo woke up at three and would not go back to sleep until I put him in bed with me half an hour later, assuredly none of us would have slept if Chelsea was home.

Nonetheless and allthemore, my baby mama says she's feeling better now.

Unfortunately, as Adela said this morning with a slight chuckle of fear and resignation, "I guess we're next..."

Ugh.