You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America when... the Only Man you can Trust is a Short, Salt & Pepper, Jewish Comedian Who Gives You Fake News

I cannot begin to describe how much I love Jon Stewart.

For years now he has been the voice of reason in a crazy world. The last 8 years have seen his show rocket in popularity as his hilarious yet probing news ‘reporting’ has brought into stark focus the failures of the Bush administration. For 13% of 18-25 year olds he is the main source of daily news and, according to a 2007 study, his viewers are better informed than those watching ‘Papa Bear’ O’Reilly or even ‘The Best Political Team on Television’ CNN.

What this says about the American news media is for others to discuss (or me in my dissertation next year!) but the very fact that a comedy show provides better information than 24 hour news networks might go a long way to explaining why some Americans can’t point out Iraq on a world map.

Stewart has come under attack recently though. With Obama’s victory many were predicting the ‘end of comedy’: ‘What will they do now we don’t have an idiot in the Oval Office?’ Comedy or a competent President? I think voters made the right choice and rest assured, so does Jon. But the problem was certainly there. I remember Stewart takin a direct pop shot at Obama during the campaign and his studio audience taking in a collective sharp breath. Stewart’s reply was typical, reassuring them that it was OK to laugh at this guy just as much as the pork obsessed senior citizen from the other team but he learnt his lesson. From then on the jokes were flung elsewhere (having a wolf-hunting pre-madonna in heels as the alternative target really helped).

He has also been usurped by his prodigal son, Stephen Colbert, whose consistent and seemingly constant portrayal of an extreme conservative ideologue is simultaneously pant-wettingly funny and a bit too close for comfort, especially when you hear that some people just don’t get the joke.
However, Stewart remains the last word in serious ‘fake’ news. His recent diatribes against the injustices of the bank bailout contain as many common sense observations as they do jokes, maybe even more and over the past week his razor sharp wit has been directed squarely at what he clearly believes to be one of the causes for the plunging 401k necklines, CNBC.

Last Wednesday’s edition of The Daily Show was completely devoted to the issue of whether the money channels could have given us a little forewarning instead of screaming “BUY! BUY! BUY!” even as the market fell to its death. Stewart and his team’s criticism focussed on the Looney Tunes reject of financial advice, Jim Cramer.

Cramer, who barely five days before its collapse was advising his viewers to buy Bear Stearns, took it upon himself to hit back, going on various talk shows to defend the values of telling people what to do with their money while honking a bull horn. The rest of the news media, who love a good fight almost as much as they love a no pants Britney Spears, billed the ‘feud’ as the ultimate clash. It was like watching the build up to a prize fight between Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson. As it turned out, the inevitable interview last night, was more like Muhammad Ali verses the before picture guy in a Bio Flex ad.

After accusing Stewart of presenting a “variety show” and completely belittling the idea of a comedian criticizing his words of not so wisdom on other shows, Cramer sat in his seat like a 3 year old that’s just been found peeing on the couch. His shame was obvious as he vainly attempted to wheedle his way out of definitive evidence showing him advising short selling and under a constant barrage of insight and justice coming from the so called ‘jokester’ across the desk.

His main defence was that his is an entertainment show just like Stewart’s. But Stewart makes jokes about politicians whereas Cramer is telling you what to do with your monetary future. Anyone whose projected retirement age has gone from 56 to 105 recently would have a good perspective on that comparison.

In a world dominated by tanned glamour pusses with perfect teeth (and that’s just Brian Williams), it is good to know that the legacy of Rob Morrow and Walter Cronkite lives on in American journalism, collecting and giving the facts from the everyman’s point of view and fighting for the values of the little guy against the misdemeanours of corporate Goliaths. It’s just lot more funny now.

Go here to witness the magic...

You Know You're on a Foreign Exchange to America When...Congress is Full of Twitters!

Lent officially started last week although we all know we’ve actually been giving up stuff since September when the housing market plummeted and suddenly Pot-O-Noodles became al a carte rather than a 2am guilty pleasure.

Usually when someone asks you what you’re giving up for 40 days you can say cigarettes or chocolate. This year the only things you’ve got left are crackers and some canned goods from that hamper your (ex) boss gave you last Christmas. Give up apricots in brandy? Are you kidding? That’s lunch on Friday!

In today’s economic climate we’re not prepared to give up anything...unless we get paid for it!!

Still, tradition is tradition and last Tuesday saw as much beads and boobs action as most years. They shook it in Rio, gave it up in New Orleans and twitted it in DC.

Why Obama chose to give his first joint address to Congress on ‘Fat Tuesday’ in a year when thin isn’t just for the super waifs on the Paris catwalk but a way of life I have know idea. Everyone, meaning mostly the GOP and the media, have been accusing the hope-miester of negativity recently. By being honest and trying to bring home the genuine desperate situation years of financial abuse has brought us to, Obama suddenly doesn’t fit into the box we carved for him. Despite the fact that he seems to singlehandedly be attempting to drag the hulk of the American financial system out of the quick sand, unless he’s doing it all while reassuring the country that it has nothing to do with them and they don’t have to do a thing and everything’s rosy really and there’ll cupcakes and daisies for everyone and don’t worry about the two wars and that global warming thing either, we freak! ‘This isn’t why we voted for him! He’s the inspiration guy!!’

The fact that inspiration can be coupled with honesty is lost on us after 8 years of covering up, of false dreams of a healthy economy and safe, won wars. After 9/11 America was told to go out and shop. Now, at the edge of another precipice our leader is asking us to help him, to be leaders ourselves, to give up consumerism and our spare time in order to serve our community. In return Obama has pledged to bring the soldiers home, create a new green collar economy and cure cancer. Somehow I feel like we got the better deal.

It was nice to see him back on form though. Hope was back, rested and refreshed from its time at the luxury desert spa and he reinstated himself as the no.1 progression purveyor. The crowd loved it. Pelosi was jumping up and down like a preteen at a Jonas Brothers concert and once she was up the rest had to follow suit. I worried grandpa Joe Biden couldn’t take the pace! I was even more worried when he turned up with what looked like a nasty bruise on his forehead the next day. Thankfully it wasn’t sign of a brain aneurism caused by incessant standing ovation but proof he’s a good Catholic boy. Apparently, ‘real’ Catholics get ‘anointed’ with ‘actual’ ashes on Ash Wednesday. And you thought Mormons were weird!

The other anointed one held the audience in the palm of his hand, each filled with rapture as he eulogised on the good America has been and, if they get their collective asses in gear and vote for everything he wants, can be again. He’s the man with the plan and since it’s the only one we’ve got maybe we should give it a chance. Unfortunately, some of the illustrious listeners were too busy being Republicans, the grumpy kids sitting at the back of the class, or ‘tweeting’. This actually doesn’t involve spying a black and white cat and then uttering a popular catchphrase in an annoying baby voice but is just as childish. If your senator can sum up their entire existence in 140 characters I’m seriously worried about the state of the union.

But the message they missed while furiously typing about how totally hot Hils looks in pink or how much of a bitch Mitch McConnell is wasn’t meant for them anyway. It was meant for the American people. Obama’s call to butts was not just to those in the chamber but those on the other side of the tube. He’s not expecting to do this alone. He means you, buddy boy! The years of government being separate from the people is at an end. The government IS the people and coming from a British girl, isn’t that what America is all about? Whatever you do for lent, don’t give up on that.

You Know You're on a Foreign Exchange to America When...You Start Blogging Again!!

Sorry for the break guys!! Travel, classes and life in general kinda got in the way!! Thanks for your patience!

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... Your Eating Turkey a Month Early

When I turned on the TV Thursday morning there was a 30 foot mechanical turkey dressed as a pilgrim terrorizing New York City. No, I wasn’t watching a really bad Japanese monster movie. It was Thanksgiving, the day when the entire country idolizes the creature they’ll devour that very afternoon. It’s a strange juxtaposition, cooing over what you’re about to eat. All those cute images of turkeys adorning cards when the reality is millions have recently been sacrificed to satisfy the American day of food excess. A couple even had their last moment shared with the entire nation through the wisdom of Sarah Palin’s publicity team. They couldn’t have moved a little to the left?

The turkeys are going to fight back though. They have a secret weapon, a suppressant drug concealed in the tasty goodness of their meat, Tryptophan.

If a foreign state ever wanted to invade this country the best time would be around 3.30 in the afternoon on Thanksgiving. This is when Tryptophan has had its full effect. Aunt Marge is passed out on the sofa, cousin Ricky is napping on the floor and the dog is flaked out on the porch. This is happening at houses throughout the nation, even the National Guard are in a turkey coma, the doors are wide open. This is when the turkeys will make their move. Their suicide roasting squads will bring the country to its knees and let in a vegetarian invasion force. Buddhists maybe.

Our last line of defense will be marching bands. There isn’t an army in the world that could stand Wilmington Heights High School’s rendition of ‘Winter Wonderland’ for more than two minutes without their ears bleeding. Give the cheerleaders actual guns instead of those wooden ones and New York at least would be safe.

Thanksgiving is a peculiarly American holiday. In other places it is little more than a harvest festival but here the religious and the secular are brought together in a celebration of the country’s inception. In a land populated by immigrants of so many different faiths the religiosity of Christmas has faded, Thanksgiving is both Christian festival and recognition of how we all got here. There are the usual excesses of American celebration (food, drink, shopping, shameless commercialization) but at its core Thanksgiving is the perfect melding of myth and reality.

It celebrates the lessons the pilgrims learnt from the Native American tribes that allowed them to survive in the New World. The irony that the very people that helped the settlers get through those first few years were later persecuted and all but wiped out by the colonists is conveniently hidden in a haze of goodwill and joy.

Much like turkeys both the pilgrims and their Indian tutors are painted as idols sharing their meal around long tables as families throughout the country still do. Like other myths it is a comfort, a fairytale moment when the two cultures were able to put away their differences and eat, again, like families do. Thanksgiving is wish fulfillment, a perfect time when America and your family are united over cranberries and pie, a day set aside from the trauma of war, economic meltdown and family ruptures. We all need this little escape in to a food induced stupor where we attempt to fix history in our favor and forget that pyramid scheme Ricky got you involved with. Whether it works or not can be left for another day.

Pass the turkey, please. I think I’ve just got my second wind.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You Get Stared At Because You’d Rather Walk

America is in love. Its citizenry has had a major crush for nigh on a century. This object of desire informs their dreams, their aspirations, their entire culture. In fact, for some, it’s what makes their lives livable.

Americans love their country but they love their cars more.

In Britain, if you see a driveway with more than one car an involuntary ‘Oooh, get them!’ passes your lips. Here that’s every third house, the rest have three…or four…or…. And all of them are huge! It’s as if the hatchback was never invented. When I arrived in Chicago this summer my friend had bought a new ride. When I met him last year, we used to cruise Lake Shore Drive in a minivan but that’s nowhere near big enough for a 21 year old student who lives within walking distance of his University. This time, when he managed to find me in the maze of downtown despite the few scant details I gave of my whereabouts (“I’m next to a Starbucks?” “I know where you are”), he pulled up in a truck.

The mighty automobile forms a large part of American culture. Films and music have celebrated its existence right from the beginning. The car chase has been a highlight of cinematic exploits from the Keystone Cops to Gone in 60 Seconds. We have seen their sinister side in Duel and Christine, their cuddly side in Herbie and they are even a co-star in successful action TV shows, though we all know Kit acted the socks of the Hof. They have inspired their own form of music and I truly pity anyone who has not driven at high speed down the 101 pumping out a bit of Heart or Bon Jovi (including myself). In literature most journeys are taken by car. Whether it’s the magical Raoul Duke and his Samoan lawyer braving ‘bat country’ to experience some Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or Jack Kerouac adventuring the country on some sort of Beat Generation spirit walk, the road has become the operative analogy for finding the American soul.

In most other countries driving is a passion or a chore; here it is a state of mind. Another friend of mine finally managed to get his supped up Volkswagen Beetle going after it died a few months ago. He described how when the engine finally turned over it felt like a piece of him had also been repaired. He was so aroused by the experience he had to go play jazz drums for 40 minutes in an attempt to calm himself down. When that didn’t work, Jack Daniels was the only answer.

However, in such a car orientated culture problems do arise. The further west you go the more people refuse to leave their tin boxes and so less money goes towards public transport. Hence, in Chicago and New York you can get pretty much anywhere by train or bus even at three in the morning. In California’s state capital, I have to be tucked up in bed by midnight having gambled my life on the Light Rail. The only other option is trusting your mortal coil to that friend you’ve been drinking with for the past four hours and has who only just got his license back after his latest wet and reckless.

American’s will always put car first, everything else second. Astronomical gas prices, the death of Detroit and global warming don’t scare them enough to give up such an integral part of their being. It would be like us Brits giving up tea. The car defines America. It is space, affluence, freedom and power all wrapped up in a shiny boat with tail fins. Americans think auto therefore they are.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You Try to Figure out Which America You’re Living In.

Last week Americans made a big choice. They chose who they want to represent their country for the next four years. Slightly more important than ‘Ranch or Italian’, me thinks.

However, this decision doesn’t have the instant gratification others do. It’s like the country has been given that toy they always wanted for Christmas. They know they’ve got it, they can see it right there under the tree but they can’t open it until January 20th. Until then they only have the old one, with a wonky wheel. It used to be fun but since it ran into that brick wall (Iraq? The economy? Take your pick.) it has never been the same.

And let’s not forget that there are a lot of people who didn’t want the new toy at all. The Deep South and of course, Alaska wanted Mr. Potato head with the special military attachments and Barbie doll wife. They can’t quite understand why all of a sudden everyone else preferred basketball.

The obsession with the new toy has led a newly election starved media to leap on the idea that Obama’s presidency will lead the country to unity. Suddenly, with this half Kenyan, half Kansas, Christian/Muslim, moderate/socialist cultural icon, demigod at the helm America will somehow become a homogenous mush of goodness. We’ll all be having hippy love-ins by March.

Everyone seems to have forgotten that just a few weeks ago there were stump speeches that referenced a ‘real’ America and by inference a ‘fake’ one.

These two Americas seem to lead separate lives like divorced parents living in the same house. They continuingly argue over the kids but neither has the nerve to simply leave. Each has their own population base, their own demographics and their own interpretation of the constitution. Their capital cities of New York and Wasilla are as far apart geographically as they are in ideology and yet their histories have been entwined together since the very beginning.

Those capitalist idealists of the South must have been pissed when that boat load of freedom loving do gooders landed. They even got the Indians on their side simply by starving half to death.

Nowadays, it appears easy to know which America you’re in. Small town = ‘real’, city = ‘fake’, farm = ‘real’, organic farm = ‘fake’, check shirt, trucker hat and own teeth = ‘fake’, check shirt, trucker hat and no teeth = ‘real’.

Being in California I thought I was safely in ‘fake’ America (my other favorite places being New York and Chicago, I’m clearly on that side of the divide). However, then Prop 8 passed. The state known throughout the world as the land of the liberal, home of the hippy, has passed an amendment to its constitution denying loving couples (who just happen to like kissing people of the same sex) the right to tie the knot. Florida? Of course. Arizona? Obviously, but California? A persons gaydar would breakdown from overuse in San Francisco and don’t even get started on Hollywood…There isn’t a state that loves queens more, except, well, us.

The irony is that it was partly the new Black and Hispanic vote, brought out by Obama’s nomination that were to blame. Young voters from all communities voted overwhelmingly no on 8. Older minority and immigrant citizens went democrat but are also staunchly Christian/Catholic and voted to pass the measure.

The lesson here is that even with an inspirational leader voted in by a high majority and winning in states that haven’t turned blue since the heady days of LBJ, division still rules. It’s just that the players have swopped.

Hope only really lies in changing not only policy but people’s minds.

See The Daily Show's take on this here.

Ichi Maki

Sushi is most definitely what people refer to as an acquired taste. The very thought of raw fish, vegetables and rice wrapped in sheets of reconstituted seaweed would be enough to send a lot of people running for the nearest golden arches. But for those of us who have enjoyed discovering the complex joys rendered by such jewel like treats as nigiri toro or ikura gunkan maki, Sushi has become the fast food of choice.

When a friend invites you to a ‘mom & pop’ sushi joint you may wonder what to expect. However, Ichi Maki is no greasy but oh-so-good corner diner with a Japanese twist. It is, instead, a clean, faux modern, airy restaurant. As soon as you enter, the chefs, imprisoned behind their bamboo conveyer belt, and wait staff, dressed in lime green t-shirts with long black aprons, chirrup their greeting in unison. The decor is an interesting mix of what is deemed de rigour (i.e. actually restaurant fashion about 5 years ago), traditional Japanese pieces and a few too many plants. There is also a sports bar element with huge widescreen TVs both above the bar and on the back room’s wall. Unfortunately, on possibly the most important election night in the history of America, neither was tuned to CNN so I was missing my Anderson Cooper fix.

As with most sushi places the menu was vast. It included well over what seemed like 100 kinds of maki as well as lists of various specials, side dishes and sushi combos. These included sushi boats, where a selection is served in bamboo boats of various sizes depending on the number in your party. Our party opted to go for individual dishes, partly due to funds, partly because the female majority could never have decided what to include.

While we deliberated, Ester, our perky waitress, soothed the process with free miso soup and endamames, which was a nice and very welcome touch. The soup, which can often simply taste like it’s been made up from oxo cubes, was of full, warming bitterness. The endamames
were steamed to a good al dente crunch, perfect for soy sauce dipping.

Eventually, we came to our decisions. Our order was delivered in quick time, sailing out from behind the counter on a silver serving trolley. All the meals were beautifully presented, shapes created by deep fried crab’s legs on squared, patterned monochrome plates that highlight the bright, fresh colours.

Apart from getting two of the dishes mixed up, which nearly resulted in me receiving a huge, spider crab roll instead of the modest asparagus maki I had actually ordered, Ester coped well with a consistent smile. My light meal of the maki and ginger kadame, a cold seaweed salad, felt intense intimidation from the bulk items on others plates but managed to hold its own. The asparagus was fresh and tender to the bite. The salad was an interesting mix of greens with flashes of pink pickled ginger and a scattering of sesame seeds. As with most seaweed dishes its chewy texture and flavorful undertones are immediately reminiscent of the ocean. The sesame and ginger helped temper and take the taste buds in a new direction.

Once the main event was over, we were presented with cleansing orange segments and then the bill which was satisfactorily low. Others paid around $20 and my lighter version only $10.
The blandness of Ichi Maki’s decor and its uninspiring atmosphere are more than made up for by their extensive menu and good service. In short it may not be the best sushi place in the world but in the vast ocean of California’s favorite Japanese export it manages to rise above the pack.

“Miso please!”

Ichi Maki,

11291 Folsom Blvd, Rancho Cordova, CA 95742, United States+1 916-635-8880