Illumination

My first job in journalism was at a trade paper called Women’s Wear Daily, where the managing editor, Mort Sheinman, taught me some lessons that, all these years later, still stand me in good stead when I sit down to write a newspaper or magazine story.

One day Mort and I went out to lunch and he confessed to me that his dream job would be city editor – not at the newspaper, but literally walking around the streets of New York correcting all of the mistakes on street signs, on menus, on movie marquees and so on.

I thought he might be interested in the writing on the wall outside this store in the Colonia Roma Sur, which sells all sort of light bulbs and light fixtures. It would appear that they are selling some lamps with the brand name “Slime Line.” I’m assuming they are actually called “Slim Line.” But maybe they’re just dirty lamps. What do you think, Mort?

Malkovich in Mexico

In the mid-1980s I saw John Malkovich on Broadway twice – in Death of a Salesman and Burn This – and have been a fan ever since. So when Guillermo Osorno, editor of Gatopardo magazine, called to see if I would write a profile of the actor, he didn’t have to ask twice.

Malkovich is in Mexico City directing a play in Spanish called El buen canario (Good Canary). It was actually written in English by an American named Zach Helm, but as of yet has never been produced in its original language. (Malkovich directed it in Paris in French last year, and for his efforts won a Moliere Award.) It starts a limited run at the Teatro Insurgentes on November 28, with Diego Luna and Irene Azuela in the principal roles.

I spent quite a bit of time with Malkovich over the course of two days in Los Angeles, where the first couple of weeks of rehearsals were held. He struck me as exactly like he is in the movies, minus the menace – thoughtful, funny, intelligent, intense, charming, and enigmatic. He was so nurturing to the actors that it was as if he were their mother rather than their director. The issue of Gatopardo with my story is on the newsstands in Mexico City, but those of you who can read Spanish can find the article on the Gatopardo web site (www.gatopardo.com). Or else, click right here and you'll get there directly.

No parking? No problem.

I know, I know, I know: Isn't it awful? Whatever happened to civic culture? What an outrage. But just between us: Wouldn't you love to be able to do this in downtown Sheboygan? Paducah? Kenosha?

I've got good news and bad news

First, the good news, which is, of course, that Obama won. The above photo was taken moments before he was declared the victor, at a results-watching party thrown by the U.S. Embassy at the Hotel Camino Real. The beauty in the silly hat is Margot Lee Shetterly from the great state of Virginia, who is alongside her husband, Aran Shetterly from the chillier one of Maine. The two are publisher and editor, respectively, of Inside Mexico, a monthly English-languague publication here. (You can have a look at www.insidemex.com.) Judging from the grave expressions on their faces, the woman with her hand on her cheek, and the other inspiring sympathy from Margot, were perhaps McCain supporters.

The Mexicans at the party were hardly paying attention to the election results; indeed, they seemed distracted by them. Which brings me to the bad news: Tuesday, at about 6:40 p.m., a Lear jet crashed down on Paseo de la Reforma near the Fuente de Petróleos. This would be more or less like a plane falling on Fifth Avenue in New York, or between the Café de la Paix and the Bourse in Paris. The most prominent passenger was Juan Camilo Mouriño, Minister of the Interior, and right-hand man to President Felipe Calderón.

The government is assuring us that it was an accident. However, all the Mexicans at the party seemed to think that the plane's failure was the work of drug traffickers, as Mouriño was directly involved in Calderón's war against them. All nine of the people on the plane, passengers and crew, died. Miraculously, it appears that there were only five other casualties, although 40 people were taken to the hospital. Six are in critical condition and one is among the five who perished.

Sex and its complements

Balzac said that all great books are about sex and money. If he had read Patricia Monge’s book of short stories, Edecán urbana, he would have been satisfied at least halfway. If in the stories there isn’t a lot of money, this lack is compensated – as it is, if we are lucky, in real life – with an abundance of sex.

Monge’s book contains seven episodes in the life of a contemporary woman in Mexico City. The sex scenes are written without adornment, euphemisms, shame or shyness. Upon reading Edecán urbana, what is most striking is that there are so few authors in Mexico, male or female, who write about sex with such frankness. (Which perhaps should come as no surprise – according to one survey, 71 percent of women in Mexico say they are sexually unsatisfied.)

Forewarned is forearmed: Edecán urbana isn’t merely a dirty book. The author is also interested in those intersections in which sex isn’t only about sex – in Monge’s stories, sex is a camouflage for love, for falling out of love, for hoping to fall in love, for the desperate search for love, and the cynicism that accompanies the lack of love.

There are also substantial parts of the book that have nothing to do with sex, or in which the sex is indirect or imagined. Monge, an Argentine who has lived in Mexico for over a decade, like many foreigners, has an expertly jaundiced eye for social stereotypes, such as the petty bureaucrat. In my favorite parts of the book the narrator speculates about the conjugal life of one of these specimens, and how he engenders his infidelities.

In the photo above, the author adjusts an accessory.