I found the following quotes from some of the squad members in an AP article:

The photo, which has been running as a newspaper spread in Spain since Friday, shows all 15 players making the gesture on a basketball court adorned with a Chinese dragon. The photo was part of a publicity campaign for team sponsor Seur, a Spanish courier company, and is being used only in Spain.

“It was something like supposed to be funny or something but never offensive in any way,” said Spain center Pau Gasol, who also plays for the Los Angeles Lakers. “I’m sorry if anybody thought or took it the wrong way and thought that it was offensive.”

Point guard Jose Manuel Calderon said the team was responding to a request from the photographer.

“We felt it was something appropriate, and that it would be interpreted as an affectionate gesture,” Calderon, who plays for NBA’s Toronto Raptors, wrote on his ElMundo.es blog. “Without a doubt, some … press didn’t see it that way.”

A couple things I would like to point out:

1. As the article mentions above, the advert was meant for print in Spain. I have not read anywhere in any newspaper in Spain that people in country have found this advertisement offensive. This might sound ridiculous to those of you living outside of Spain, but in the spanish context there really is nothing offensive about the photo. The “slit-eyed gesture” is not, to my knowledge, a racial slur here. Different things are offensive in different countries and we would all do well to inform ourselves and respect the cultures of other people. In my opinion, the international media has failed in understanding the Spanish context when reporting on this subject. I have yet to find an article in English that managed to place the picture in its original context with its original copy, let alone a reporter who managed to truly investigate race in Spain. I don’t see how that is responsible on their part. However, I do think that the company sponsoring the advert and the Spanish Basketball Federation (Federación Española de Baloncesto, FEB) should have been a bit more wise when managing their image in a global village. Which leads to my next observation…

2. What comes across in the quotes from the Spanish players above isn’t racism, but ingenuity. I think that ingenuity abounds in Spain. On the subject of race, cultural awareness and many other things. Who on earth in the twenty-first century thinks that just because something is only meant for print in Spain it won’t find it’s way on to the internet and be available all over the world before the end of the business day? What PR person didn’t think to check into whether or not this would cause an international stir? Believe me, this sort of lack of forward thinking is endemic throughout society over here.

I honestly think it was an ingenuous, silly advert that should not have been made. However, I also believe that no racial prejudice was meant or shown. The international press has blown this out of all proportion an made it into something it isn’t. Between Russia eating Georgia with their afternoon tea and Michael Phelps doing the same with the field in any swimming event, isn’t there enough news to keep us all busy without wasting time on ridiculous stories like this? (Mr. Araton needs to get out a lil’ more often and see that his own culture isn’t the only one setting the standard in the world for what is racist and what isn’t.)

p.d.- Just saw this today on the CNN website:

He pointed to a Wednesday article in El Pais, a Spanish newspaper, that quoted a Chinese Embassy spokesman in Spain as saying “we don’t interpret this gesture as offensive” or racist.

“Ultimately there is a very good relationship between the Chinese and Spanish governments and there is no kind of conflict at all between the two peoples,” El Pais quoted the spokesman as saying.

It begs the question: Has anyone ever bothered to ask the Chinese if the whole gesture is even offensive?

p.d.d.- Jon Stewart had a pretty funny (and insightful) segment on the Daily Show today about this whole mess. Remember what Jesus said about the whole plank in your own eye/splinter in your neighbor’s eye thing? Might wanna check that out America! He didn’t go into English history with racial slurs, but the ground there is fertile too. I only have to say two words: Prince Philip. Of course, when royalty shows an openly racist attitude, it isn’t a slur. It’s a ‘gaffe’.

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I got up early on Saturday morning to see the men’s cycling road race.  The race came down to the last second and a Spaniard pipped in on the final sprint and won by a head. Very exciting. I could actually hear neighbors cheering along with me as Samuel Sánchez crossed the finish line.  I think you miss those sorts of manifestations of community when you live in a more rural society (like the United States).  When was the last time you heard your neighbor cheering on your country in the Olympics?

At the moment, I’m watching the US Men’s Basketball team again.  Two questions:

1. When, between 1992 and the present, did NBA stars lose the ability to do two basic things: make a jumpshot and use a bounce pass instead of a lob?

2. What are those half sleeve things some of them wear on their arms?  I can’t help but think they look like something a teeny bopper girl’s group would wear.  Can you imagine Magic and Larry wearing those?  Or even MJ? 

I am guessing that Joel will be best positioned to answer both these questions…

One sport that really needs some digital help is fencing.  If they could put some sort of digital effect on point of the foil, the spectator would be able to follow what is going on.  As it is the foils are black or near black and fencing arenas are generally not very well lit.  I’m thinking something like what network TV used to do with the puck in hockey.  Then fencing would look more like Jedi knights fighting with light-sabres.

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Aquí empieza mi andadura en el mundo de los blogs hispano-parlantes.  Perdona las faltas de ortografía y gramática.  No tengo tiempo ni paciencia para ponerme a corregir todo.  Así que, ¡Aguantaros!

El viernes pasado decidimos volver a un restaurante que no habíamos pisado en mas de un año.  Yo tenía ganas de una buena ensalada (bonita y barata también si fuera posible) y sabía que a los que me acompañaban les gustaba el sitio que tenía en mente.

(A brief aside for those that don’t speak spanish – I’m starting to write a bit in castellano now and then.  I doubt that any of it will be pertinent to your interests or that it will fit your context.  Just know that I’m not talking about you.  I promise that if I enter any topics having to do with an english speaking nation and its culture, I’ll be sure to write in my native language.)

Nos dirijimos a la calle Trajano, una de las que une la Alameda de Hercules con la Campana sevillana.  Habíamos descubierto Il Forno hace ya muchos años, creo que justo cuando abrió puertas.  Siempre nos había encantado sus pizzas, la elección de entre muchos platos internacionales que no proporcionó su menu y, por supuesto, sus ensaladas.

Una en concreto siempre me había encantado: la “Ensalada de la Casa”.  Varios tipos de lechuga, tomate, un poquito de cebolla, grandes pedazos de atún y un delicioso queso feta con cilantro fresco esparcido encima.  Y su aliño de aútentico aceite de oliva y reducción de vinagre balsámico la daba un toque perfecto.  Se nota que la tenía ilusión, ¿No?

Cuando entramos por la puerta del restaurante, yo sabía que no todo marchaba bien.  El camarero miró el carrito de bebé y hizo una cara cuya significado era inconfundible.  Y eso que era el único camarero para un local de más de 200 metros.  Nos quería meter entre toda la muchedumbre, todos fumando por supuesto.  Le tuve que convencer para que nos dejara sentarnos en la parte delantera del restaurante donde apenas había gente y, a mi juicio, donde nuestro carrito molestaría menos. Al final el tío asentió, pero no sin dejar patente que nuestra presencia no era grata.

Acto seguido nos trae la carta.  Olvidaré todo el trato brusco si me puedo hacer con una de esas ensaladas.  Yo busco las ensaladas y se me para el corazón: ¡No hay ensalada de la casa!  Bueno, no pasa nada.  En realidad SI pasa algo porque las demás ensaladas no son atractivas para nada y allí estaba yo con unas ganas locas de comerme una.  Al final, me decanté por probar una ensalada césar.  Heather pidió una pizza y nuestra amiga Helen una pasta de mariscos.

Yo caracterizaría la ensalada césar que me llegó como cuatro hojas de lechuga iceberg (blech!) con una jarra de mayonesa echada encima.  En muchos establecimientos españoles yo diría que le ponen demasiado mayonesa a todo lo que se mueve en la cocina.  Pero nunca había visto yo cosa parecida.  ¡No recuerdo la última vez que tuve que montar una expedición excavatoria para buscar las verduras en mi ensalada!  Puse buena cara y ententé disfrutar de mi ensalada.  Pero no pude.  Prueba allí donde estes, a ver si puedes.  Abrete una lata de mayonesa y empieza a comerte la mayonesa con un tenedor.  ¿Que grato, no?  Y todo eso cuando todos los precios en toda la carta habían subido un 40% desde nuestra penúltima visita.

La pizza de Heather estaba mas cara y mas chica que la última vez también.  La pasta de mariscos tenía cuatro gambas, no más.  El camarero no trajó mi niña un plato aparte porque ella no había pedido nada.  Mientras estabamos allí otra familia no aguantó las idioteces del negocio y se fueron sin más.

Pienso que a lo mejor teníamos que haber hecho lo mismo.  Descansa en paz Il Forno.  Para mi, has muerto.

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Here is a picture of words I have used on my blog, generated by wordle.net.

Actually. Just. Pretty. Freaking. Brilliant.  But only if “Brilliant”’s secret meaning is actually “Embarrassing”.

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I snapped this pic while we were in the waiting room at the doctor’s office.  I don’t think that Robert is actually smiling because he is happy.  I am pretty sure it is a reflex to external stimuli that has no emotional value at all.  This, of course, does not change the fact that he is very cute when he does so or that it feels good to see your infant son smile.

My newfound talent is that I have about three top secret things that I can do to make him smile at pretty much any time.  Maybe a video post needs to happen in which I divulge my secrets? Hmmmm…

The doctor’s visit wasn’t for Robert, it was for Sophia.  Nothing to be alarmed about.

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Quantum mechanics is the girl you meet at the poetry reading. Everyone thinks she’s really interesting and people you don’t know are obsessed about her. You go out. It turns out that she’s pretty complicated and has some issues. Later, after you’ve broken up, you wonder if her aura of mystery is actually just confusion.

Funny, my entire romantic life just clicked into focus.  Who would have thought that Physics would help me understand women?

via kottke.org/McSweeney’s

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Stephen Fry’s Podgrams:  I first saw Stephen Fry when my Mom rented the movie Peter’s Friends about 15 years ago.  I have sense realised that he is not, in fact, a dramatic actor, but rather a comedic genius.  And he’s freaking brilliant.

This American Life:  If you don’t know what this is, you need it.  Desperately.  By far the best podcast/radio show of my generation.  No discussion.

Radiolab: Science meets narrative meets sound engineering overload.  Love it.

If I had the equipment and the time, I’d want to dedicate myself part-time to a podcast about expat living, culture clash/shock and language acquisition.  It’d be great.

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Posting to the ol’ blog just got that much easier!

So far, posting photos directly from iPhone does not work.  Probably part of a more generalised problem with my installation of Wordpress at the moment.

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I think I need blogging to be more about me being me.  Spending time talking about what I’m learning, things that I enjoy and lifes experiences are things that motivate me.  I might still sprinkle in news here and there, but I will probably do so from an extremely subjective (and hopefully interesting to more people than just myself!) slant as I did with Robert’s birth.  Blogging, for me, is more about self-expression than it is about giving news updates.

And if my friend Juanan doesn’t get off my back, I might also start posting in Spanish occasionally.  So watch out.

Hopefully, I’ll start posting here a bit more and on a regular basis.  No promises though.

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Little did I know that when Heather went into labor at 8 o’clock in the evening on May 29th, reality would get its sweet revenge for all the time I had spent idolatrizing nocturnal rebellion.

We got to the hospital at about 10pm. Heather was in a lot of pain. One thing I know about Heather after being married to her for 9 years is that she does not deal well with pain. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. Everyone’s different and everyone has varying strengths and weaknesses. But when the midwife said that Heather had only dilated 2 cm (out of 10), it was pretty clear to everyone that she wasn’t going to make it without a little “help”. Once the epidural was in, I knew we were going to be in for a long night.

Number one reason why hospital births are over-rated: No bed for the dads. Granted, we aren’t the ones doing the real work. We are there for our own emotional fulfilment (let’s be honest), moral support and to do some sort of “coaching”. I find that funny. To me, coaching implies some sort of expertise imparted, some guidance and practice. We are supposed to “coach” our wives through something we don’t have a hope of ever understanding or experiencing. At any rate, I digress.

So Heather is drugged up and buckled down for the long haul. She drifts in and out of sleep in her large, comfy bed as I sit in the world’s most uncomfortable chair. At about 2am, I give up on the chair and go sit on the toilet in the adjacent en-suite bathroom. To my surprise, it is exponentially more comfortable than the bright blue chair the hospital offers. So as I sit on the toilet, I’m still wondering why they don’t provide a little cot or something for the men. To me, it would make perfect sense. You see, in the whole birthing process (as in the wedding day), us men are just necessary accessories needed to make the big day happen. We don’t actually have much power to make anything happen. We are just there waiting for the big moment. At the same time, we feel this need to fix the situation, get the baby out, speed things up, etc. And if there is one thing that I know about the male of the species, it’s that we hate to wait. So you put a male in an eternal waiting game, take away his power to effect change or bring solutions and then take away his ability to sink into a depressed sleep. Cruel and unusual, I say.

At about 4 in the morning, the midwife comes in for the umpteenth time to check Heather’s dialation. “Not long now”, she proclaims in a happy way that is simply wrong at that time of the morning. As she hurries from the room, I stick my head out of the bathroom and sputter after her, “Wait! How long is not long?” I don’t get an answer. I sigh, resigning myself to the toilet seat once more to await the inevitable that never arrives.

About 2 hours later, the midwife enters again and starts setting up the stirrups while announcing that the obstetrician will be there at any time and that it is about “that” time. Finally! Some action. We are also relieved as we realise that there will be no C-section this time.

 

Robert David Bailey, born May 30, 2008, weight: 3.9 kg, height: 53 cm

The doctor whirls in, checks dilation and proclaims that it is time to push. Heather and I look at each other and we know things are getting serious now. “Push as hard as you can!”, the doctor tells Heather. She pushes. I look at her face and I know she isn’t pushing as hard as she can. She finishes pushing and I tell her, “Honey, this is it. I know you can push harder than that. Don’t leave any energy for later, there is no later. Let’s do this!” The next time around, she pushes way harder. The doctor is very happy. “Almost…”, he says. “Almost? Are you serious?”, I think. I was ready for another hour or two of pushing. Heather told me later that she was too. One more push and as if by magic, I see Robert’s little head between Heather’s legs. It happened so fast that I was actually startled. You know when you watched “Aliens” when you were 13 and you get that first, full-fledged look at one of those baddies? You knew the moment was coming when they were gonna jump out and get you, but you still jumped through the roof when they did. This was sort of like that. “Oh my gosh he’s out!”, I tell Heather. She can’t believe it. She doesn’t have time to look because the final push is upon us. In the blink of an eye he is out and the doc gets him breathing. As soon as he is crying, they put him on Heather’s chest: blood, slime and all.

 

The little dude must have come out hungry because as soon as he felt her skin he started scooting his way over to Heather’s breast to have a little snack before the paediatrician came to examine him. No joke! Less than a minute out of the room and the little bruiser was ready for chow.

In Spain they have this irritating habit of taking your newborn baby away to a nursery somewhere for “observation” for the first 2-3 hours of his life. They did it with Sophia too. I guess it is necessary, but it sure is nerve-wracking. Especially since you’ve been up all night. The adrenaline generated by the birth isn’t going to let you sleep and neither will your nerves until they get your baby in your room so you can see with your own eyes that he is here and he’s healthy. Not only does it feel like they are holding your baby hostage, but they are also holding back the one thing that you need to finally be able to sleep. In spite of all that, when the orderly brought Robert in we were so thrilled that we thanked him.

We were all asleep within 30 minutes.

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