Why James Bond Is Okay

Have you ever read any James Bond books? Because the movies can be pretty racist and misogynistic but believe me, until you see the source material, you have no idea.

They're fun though. I enjoy reading them. And for a while I was like, "Is this okay? Should I feel guilty about it? Do I need to justify myself?" Eventually I decided: No.

Racism and misogyny are bad. Any kind of hatred or disdain or contempt for any arbitrary group of people is bad. No need to belabour that point here. But if that's true, then how can I give Bond not only a pass, but an fairly enthusiastic thumbs-up? Wouldn't it be better to renounce him and all his works?

James Bond is not the devil though; James Bond is a perspective. A very particular white, straight, male perspective. The problem isn't that this perspective exists. There are as many perspectives as there are people, and not all stories need to give us characters we like and empathize with.

The problem comes in when that perspective is mistaken for the whole picture -- when we start to accept that white, straight, and male is some kind of baseline. Because then whitestraightmale becomes "normal," which makes everything else... not.

As Carla Bruce-Eddings says:

At 17, I was cloistered so securely within my most obvious box — society’s conception of “black” — that I assumed any character lacking visual details was white. I didn’t protest that I often only encountered white characters with multi-dimensionality. White seemed to be the standard, from which an author could then build a more detailed identity. Any identity other than white was almost singularly defined by non-whiteness. My understanding of the world was firmly rooted in the reality of my otherness, and aside from occasional annoyance, I accepted this as an utterly immutable fact.

Nobody should be other. We should all have assumed Hermione was black to begin with. Idris Elba should play James Bond. Read what you want, just remember to think about it afterward.

RECIPE: Decadent Chocolate Cake. This has been my father's birthday cake for as long as I can remember; my mother bakes it every year, without fail. For much of that time, I would eat the cake first, saving all the frosting for last.

A Man a Plan a Canal

If you follow me on Instagram, you'll have some inkling that R and I just spent two weeks in Panama. And now people keep asking "How was it?" and mostly the answer is "good" but if we really get into it, well, it's actually kind of a bit sort of longer. This, then, is the long answer.

Panama was good. That is, we had a good time. We snorkeled, we hiked, we rode horses, we played cards, we drank a fair amount of beer and milkshakes. Nothing wrong with that. Let me start with the facts:

We arrived in Panama City early Saturday morning -- early enough that we could drop our bags off at the hostel, but not check in yet. So we stashed the bags, got changed, and headed out in search of breakfast. Working our way along the Cinta Costera towards Casco Viejo, we found a local food court and got some fish stew (questionable) and a pineapple horchata shake (very nice). We took in the sights for as long as we could stand (i.e. check-in time), and went back to the hotel to crash.

(One of the nice things about Panama City is that it's only a 4.5-hour flight from NY and in the same time zone. The downside is that if your flight leaves at 1am you're not exactly jet-lagged, but you're certainly sleep-deprived. Especially since Copa decided they needed to serve breakfast at 3am.)

Next day we hit the Canal -- Miraflores Lock -- then walked along Amador Causeway, then back to Casco Viejo for an uninspiring lunch and some excellent gelato (pain d'epices and chocolate orange for R; blackberry and mango/passion fruit for me). Again, by mid-afternoon we were done, so we picked up a six-pack and hung out in the hostel's garden. There are worse ways to pass an afternoon, but I have to say that Panama City wasn't inspiring, by any stretch. It was incredibly hot and humid, which made wandering the streets -- usually one of my favorite activities -- just too demoralizing. We managed for a bit, and found some great street art, but it wasn't really sustainable. And frankly, even though we did manage to bop around the city a fair amount with a combination of cabs, buses, and the metro, none of it really seemed worth the effort of exploration.

Next day we were out the door at 5:30, on the road to Guna Yala. The first bit of the drive was on a standard highway, but once we hit the Comarça it turned into an extremely windy, up-and-down track through the hills to the coast. I spent most of the last hour forcing myself not to throw up.

Anyway. We got to the coast, we got in a little motorboat, and we headed out into the Caribbean. The next four days we spent snorkeling, reading, snorkeling, reading, playing cards, eating, reading, and snorkeling. Accommodation was a hut on the beach: sand floor, bed, mosquito net; very basic. There was a shower, but I never bothered using it. (All fresh water is either rainwater, or transported in from the mainland.)

They served us three very basic meals a day, most of which were fried fish, rice, and a few slices of limp vegetables. It did the job, but I'd recommend bringing hot sauce in your bag. There was beer and rum for sale, but I think they'd make a killing if they offered some chips and cookies as well. Luckily we'd had the foresight to at least bring a stack of Maria biscuits, which we hoarded carefully (two each every tea time). Pipas were provided on demand for $1/per, by a very spry staffer with a machete.

Meals were communal, and once the sun sets you've got a few hours to kill before bed, which made the coolness -- or lack thereof -- of our fellow travelers an important concern. Night One we weren't very lucky. It was pretty much us, a douchebag Russian, and a selfie-obsessed Czech. At least they played Asshole. Night Two we had an influx of Canadians, Austrians, a Finn, Germans, and an Argentine, and it was much better. The Canadians demanded a "fyoogo" on the beach, and miraculously the Germans had thought to bring marshmallows. Of course we had nothing but palm fronds to toast them on (and to burn), and they turned out to be mint flavored, but still. Night Three was similar. Night 4 R and I sat in the hut and played Rummy 500, which I have finally convinced him to like. It's the small victories.

The next day it was back to Panama City. All I really remember was that we had some exceptionally garlicky ropa viejo at a Cuban place on our way to the only English-language bookstore in town. (R had made the mistake of bringing two shortish books, and no Kindle, and four days on a desert island had done for both of them.)

Next day we flew to David, with Boquete as our final destination. This was probably the best flight I've ever been on. You can't even get through security until less than an hour before the flight; there's wifi in the waiting lounge; you walk across the tarmac to the plane; the flight is 45 minutes -- just long enough for them to bring you a snack! and a drink! (pear juice!) before you're landing again.

Boquete came as something of a relief. The weather was far, far more livable than in Panama City. With the eucalyptus and orange trees, it felt like being in San Francisco in the summertime. We hiked, went horseback riding, and hung out at the local brewery. A very refreshing three days.

One school bus, two minivans, and a boat ride later, we were in Boca Brava. I'm going to skip getting into that here, because I wrote a review for TripAdvisor, which was rejected for profanity, and it's not worth the effort. Suffice to say I wouldn't recommend bothering.

That was pretty much it. We killed a day in David, where a couple of excellent pisco sours helped take the sting out of our assorted disappointments, then flew back to Panama City (for some regrettable fried chicken and very hot hiking in  the Parque Natural Metropoitano) and home the next day.

All in all... We had a good trip. But when people ask how Panama was it's hard to answer, because none of what we did seemed intrinsic, exactly, to Panama itself.

Definitely go snorkeling. Definitely ride horses and hike and drink milkshakes and chill out in and near the ocean. But... no need to definitely go to Panama. I mean you can do all of those things there, and it will be good, but...

How to put this? If Panama had a pavilion at EPCOT, what would it look like? No idea. For better or worse, this is country that has been defined, for the last century, as a place to pass through, not a place to go. Every other country I've ever been to I can say, confidently: Go; specifically, go to X country. In this case though: Do X things, wherever that may be.

RECIPE: Coconut Cake with Chocolate Chunks & Drizzle. The wedding cake R and I baked for ourselves.

Television

My coworker started a conversation the other day by asking, "What are you watching?" Because you must be watching something. And I am (we are), but...

We're watching Julia Child, sometimes accompanied by Jacques Pépin. Good Eats. Star Trek: The Next Generation (though we may have to skip over much of the first season). Twin Peaks. The Muppet Show. Jeeves & Wooster. And eventually, hopefully, Buffy (which I've seen many, many times, but R never has; it's a big step). On the recommendation of a friend we're about to give Endeavor a try. The only shows that are currently on that we're watching are Doctor Who and Sherlock (which only very infrequently is anyway).

As for the rest... I know there are good shows out there. People tell me there are. They're probably right. But for me, "good" isn't enough. I want something I can care about.

Humor helps. (I had to stop watching Battlestar Galactica because it was so relentlessly dire.) Science fiction or fantasy elements help. (Though I actually prefer Twin Peaks before it gets all supernatural.) But what really makes a show something I want to watch?

A lot of times, it seems people get sucked in by needing to find out what happens next. Recent advances in Netflix binge-watching only facilitate this. And it works, so long as you keep the streak going. But go away for a week or two, and take stock: Are you still invested? I tend to find I'm not.

Corollary to this is the idea that knowing what comes next will spoil it. I don't buy this. If a thing can be spoiled, it wasn't fresh to begin with.

So. It's not about finding out what happens next; it's about wanting to spend time in that world. I will always enjoy spending time with Alton, Julia, Picard, Cooper, Kermit, Bertie, and Buffy (in the same way that I will always enjoy listening to Stephen Fry read Harry Potter to me). Good shows aren't fresh fruit; they're fine wine.

RECIPE: Challah, Sausage, & Dried Cherry Stuffing. Where it is at for Thanksgiving. I like swapping in a nice fennelly, spicy sausage.

If You Want to Sing Out

I have two friends, known for our purposes here as K and F, who do karaoke on the order of at least once a week. Every month or so, I join them.

Before I moved back to NY, ten years ago now, I'd only ever done karaoke in Tokyo, in private rooms. And it wasn't so much that we all wanted to sing, as we needed a place to crash until the trains started running again. For ¥2,000 you'd get a room big enough for all your friends, and unlimited, watered-down beer and chu hai until 6am. There was almost always more than one person singing at once, and we always kicked things off with Anarchy in the UK.

My NY karaoke experiences have been much more civilized. It helps that the trains never stop running here. Also that I'm not 23 anymore.

Baby Grand
If I had to choose just one, this would be it. Baby Grand was the first bar karaoke I ever did, and -- despite some questionable decisions by management (long story that's really K's, not mine) -- it remains my favorite. It's tiny -- about the same size as a private room, actually. So you get the feeling that everyone's sort of your friend, and if you go there as often as K and F, they end up that way.

Frank's
A recent discovery. Frank's is just down the block from BAM. Walking home after a movie one night, I noticed they had a sign out front advertising karaoke on Wednesdays at 8. K and F, always up for it, joined me to check it out soon thereafter. Unlike our other usual spots, Frank's has a stage. Early in the evening, the atmosphere is pretty relaxed, and I'll get up and do a song or two. Later on... it gets real. Like, people are crazy good and they get up on that stage like they mean it. It's fun, but not so conducive to performing if you are not also crazy good.

Hope & Anchor
My second-favorite. Hope & Anchor is a restaurant with a karaoke setup every Friday and Saturday at 9pm. Frankly, I'd skip dinner here, but the karaoke, hosted by a drag queen (they're currently hiring!) is pretty great. (Also, come back for brunch; it's solid.)

Soda Bar
Karaoke isn't bad here -- we approve of the KJ -- but the very sparse crowd tends toward oddness. Like The Mansplainer, his mail-order wife, and the Russian Barmaid Bitch (her word). Also odd is how you're basically standing in the middle of a living room in front of a giant screen. It's hard to know what to do with yourself. Helpfully, happy hour draught beers are $3.

Karaoke Killed the Cat at Union Hall
Look: If you want to start your night at midnight, up on stage in a low, packed basement... More power and all that. F and I tried it once, and it was alright because we arrived early and got our songs in and then left, but I wouldn't do it again. I like to be tucked in by 10.

Winnie's
In memoriam. I'm not sure the closure of Winnie's left the NY karaoke scene much poorer, but the place did fill a niche. It was down on Bayard St in Chinatown, just around the corner from the Tombs. It's lamps were held together with duck tape and the system hiccuped in the middle of songs more often than not, but there was a cat and it was convenient for takeaway noodle dinners. Not much point in mentioning it now, but RIP I suppose.

Montero
Thursdays and Fridays at 9. With Winnie's gone, this is easily the diviest place on the list. The kind of place I would drink in, but without ever shaking the feeling that I really don't belong. Anyway, aside from the time my friend H got yelled at by the KJ for swinging the mike like a rock star, Montero's has been good to us. The song books smell funky; sometimes there's free hot dogs; and I have fond memories of a "Feed Me" duet with K.

MAP

RECIPE: Dutch Baby. It's a shade too much food for two people, but so delicious you'll probably manage it. Try experimenting with a bit of orange or lemon zest, or different extracts.