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The Act of Killing

Director: Joshua Oppenheimer

Genre: Documentary

Running Time: 115 minutes

With: Haji Anif, Syamsul Arifin, Sakhyan Asmara

(Recommended)

Marti Olesen's favorite summer recipe is plucked straight from the garden — and the faster it gets to your plate, the better. She calls it Diane's Dad's Summer Sandwich.

"I've been eating this sandwich for 27 years and I am the epitome of health — and beauty," Olesen laughs.

Olesen is an elementary school librarian in Ponca, Ark. She first encountered the sandwich when a coworker, Diane Dickey, told her about it decades ago.

"She was reminiscing about this wonderful sandwich that she ate every summer with her dad. I was a vegetarian at the time and I thought, 'I'm game. Tell me about it,'" Olesen says.

The ingredient list starts out pretty traditionally: Tomatoes, Vidalia or red sweet onion and cucumbers, all fresh and sliced thinly. The veggies are placed between two slices of whole grain bread with white cheddar cheese. But the sandwich isn't complete until you slather on some crunchy peanut butter.

Olesen was skeptical as she headed to the farmer's market to gather the ingredients for the first time. Once assembled she took a big bite and thought, "'You know, it's okay, but I'm not loving it yet.'"

Realizing there might be a secret in the layering, she reordered the sandwich three of four different times but never loved the result.

"But I was very polite and I did not say anything to Diane," she says.

A couple of weeks went by before Dickey asked about the sandwich. Olesen played it off, conceding Dickey's love of the sandwich was probably wrapped up in her childhood memories.

Vote For Your Favorite

This recipe is among three finalists in our "Taste of Summer" contest. Take a look at the two others below and vote for your favorite by sending a message to All Things Considered here. Make sure to put "Taste Of Summer Vote" in the subject line.

Hari Kondabolu is a brainy comedian who cuts through the polite talk around race and gender. He's made a lot of key people laugh with his incisive anecdotes, including Jimmy Kimmel, Conan O'Brien and John Oliver.

A full-time writer on the FX show Totally Biased with W. Kamau Bell, he recently did a comedy bit on the National Spelling Bee, or "as I like to call it," he joked, "the Indian Super Bowl."

Kondabolu makes a fair point: For six years in a row, the winner has been Indian-American. As a result, he continued, "it gives me great pleasure to finally be able to say 'Hey white people, learn the language.' "

At first he was reluctant to write a bit about South Asians winning the spelling bee because it's kind of a clich.

"At the same time, I'm like: Let's own it," Kondabolu explains. "There's nothing embarrassing about kids doing well at school and dominating that happen to be South Asian, which is very exciting for me. And there aren't any South Asian athletes. I mean Jeremy Lin was Taiwanese-American. I took ownership of that. It's as close as we've gotten.

"But this is something we dominate at. This isn't the Indian Cricket team. These are South Asian-Americans, Indian-Americans dominating. And I loved it."

Thirteen-year-old Arvind Mahankali won this year's spelling bee. During his interview after his victory, he said that he planned to spend the rest of his summer studying physics. Kondabolu jokes, "He's a two-sport athlete!"

A Time To Unite?

Kondabolu was born and raised in a diverse neighborhood in Queens, N.Y., which he describes as having "different immigration status, different income levels, different languages, different parts of the world. It was incredible."

His parents were born in India and moved to the U.S. when they were in their 20s. Kondabolu describes a time in his childhood when his mother took he and his brother to Burger King, because she wanted them to assimilate into American society.

"We never saw something strange about that," he says. "As I got older, it was kind of bizarre, like 'Wait a second, why are you, why? Why did you take us to Burger King and, if we're Hindu, how come you let us eat beef?' She said that she wanted us to get used to what it was like to be an American, and apparently Burger King, well, it's fast food. What's more American than fast food?"

His mother, Uma Kondabolu, laughs as she says that, yes, she did take her sons to Burger King because it is very American but also where they found people of all backgrounds.

"That's where they played with other kids of all colors," she says. "And then I used to meet with other parents of all colors."

Uma wanted her kids to see that interacting with people of all colors was not "bad" or "scary." And Hari Kondabolu says that he felt safe growing up in his Queens neighborhood. He didn't think racism was a serious problem until the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11.

"You hear about the hate violence all around the country, even in New York, and I think that's what struck me the most, it was happening in New York, and it was confusing, because I grew up in Queens, I grew up in New York, and we just dealt with this terrorism, we dealt with 9/11," says Kondabolu, who was 18 when the World Trade Center attacks happened.

"And you're telling me, after this, everyone's claiming we're all coming together, we're getting closer, this is a time where we unite. It's like, really? Because, in my community, I see people getting hurt and being put into detention centers."

As a result, Kondabolu became politically active. He worked in the Queens district attorney's office bureau of hate crimes, went to Seattle to work for an immigrant rights group and got his masters in human rights at the London School of Economics.

All the while, his stand-up comedy was just a hobby. The idea of doing it full-time came when, in the early 1990s, Kondabolu saw Margaret Cho on Comedy Central.

"To see someone who wasn't black or Latino or white do stand-up was huge," Kondabulo explains. "And she was talking about immigrant parents, and I have immigrant parents — my parents are different from her parents, but she was talking about it. And that was OK, and it was funny. I was so amazed by that. I wanted to do that after watching her perform."

'A Good Laugh Over A Drink'

Today, Kondabolu's material is not so much about his own family, but about being an outsider in general — or at least being treated like one. And he's not afraid of challenging some long-standing beliefs.

"How do people justify homophobia in this country? 'Y'know, it's not Adam and Steve, it's Adam and Eve,' " he said at a recent show at the Black Cat in Washington, D.C. "Look, technically that is true. Right, it was Adam and Eve. But if you remember the story, it was Adam and Eve and a talking serpent. I feel like the talking serpent throws the whole account into question. I don't know how true this is. There's a talking snake involved. Maybe you shouldn't base your values on a Jungle Book-type scenario. What would Baloo do? What about Shere Khan? What about Winnie the Pooh? Oh, is that a different world? Does it matter at this point? That's a Jungle Book-type scenario. Look, I'm an Indian-Hindu alright. I know all about Jungle Book-type scenarios. That is a Jungle Book-type scenario."

Kondabolu says he knows some people won't like his point of view. "I've been approached after shows from people who said, 'I don't agree with anything you said, but I laughed the whole way through.' That's still a little strange to me. Like, nothing? Really? But at the same time that's what happens in a conversation. You might not agree with everything the other person is saying, but you can still have a good laugh over a drink, right?"

At the show in Washington, D.C., the audience was very diverse and didn't seem to have a problem with his point of view.

"People keep bringing up the year 2042 on the news when Census figures indicate that whites will be the minority," he joked. "In 2042, apparently white people will be 49 percent. First of all, why do we give a f—k? Why do we keep mentioning this? Why is this even an issue? Are there white people here that are concerned that they'll be the minority in 2042? Don't worry white people, you were a minority when you came to this country. Things seemed to have worked out for you."

Kondabolu also recently recorded material for his first live comedy album, being released on the record label Kill Rock Stars. Although the label is best known for punk rock, Kondabolu thinks it's a perfect fit.

Monkey See contributor/longtime nerd Glen Weldon is headed to San Diego Comic-Con. He's filing periodic updates from one of the largest media events in the world.

Glen and F's Apartment, Washington, DC.

4:00 a.m. ET: Alarm goes off.

4:05 a.m. ET: Alarm goes off.

4:10 a.m. ET: Alarm is like, "Hey. HEY. HEY JERK."

4:11 a.m. ET: Arise, grudgingly. Shower, grudgingly. Get dressed, grudgingly. You know what? It's 4:11in the morning, so you can pretty much just add ", grudgingly" to the end of every sentence from here on. It'll save me a little time.

4:25 a.m. ET: Final check before getting in cab. Laptop? Check. Tablet? Check. Phone? Check. Digital voice recorder? Check. Cords to connect the above to one another in various Byzantine ways? Check. Chargers for all of the above? Check. Backup chargers? Check. Backup to the backup chargers? Check. Clothestoiletriesshoesblahblahboringtravelstuffwhatever? Check.

Bag full of pointy, pointy lapel buttons?

... Check?

Well, of course that's the question of the whole morning. Do I check these buttons, or can I carry them on the plane?

A bit of background: I am flying to San Diego Comic-Con for the first time. I have attended several comics conventions, but nothing like the sprawling 130,000-plus-attendee transmedia cross-platform clusterfest of hypermegalosynergistic promotion that awaits me at the San Diego Convention Center.

For the past few months I've been nervously joking with SDCC veterans: "It's pretty much like the Small Press Expo (an annual gathering of indie/art-comix creators and devotees I've attended for years), right? A bunch of beardy, fixie-bike guys and eye-linered Betty Page girls talking soberly about the linework of Tony Millionaire and Kolbein Karlsson, right?"

Wrong. "You'll see," they say, and sink into a reverie, gazing fixedly into the middle distance like a hard-bitten 'Nam vet at an American Legion spaghetti dinner.

My habit, when going to conventions (and when going, you know, anywhere) is to hang back and observe. And were this any other year, and any other convention, I'd probably stick to that plan. But there are a few things that are forcing me out of my shell and into the Great Nerdy Scrum of Humanity, Robotity and Ewokity.

1. I've got a book to shill, and where better to shill it than Shill Central, the Great Geek Shillodrome, The Big Shill, Shillapalooza? My book, Superman: The Unauthorized Biography, came out in April, and sales have been neither underwhelming nor overwhelming. They are, instead, whelming: plainly, resolutely and unremarkably whelming.

This year is Superman's 75th anniversary. I'd applied for an official SDCC panel with Brad Ricca, author of the great new book Super Boys (a beautifully written bio of Superman's creators Siegel and Shuster and their legal and financial struggles with DC Comics), and Mark Waid (legendary comic book writer, editor, and Superman expert non-pareil), but we were rejected. This year, the only Superman celebrations at SDCC are hosted by his corporate overlords, DC Comics. More on this later.

Without a pre-set place and time to hawk the book, my original plan to send a bunch of copies to the hotel doesn't make much sense. Can't imagine I'll find a lot of opportunities for ad-hoc book-hawking, or — given that I won't have any hard copies on hand — many takers. I am great at marketing.

2. I've got a book to research. My next book is about the rise of nerd culture, and Comic-Con is nerd culture in ... it feels funny to use the term "microcosm" when speaking of this particular media event, but there you go.

My plan is to comb the con floor and stalk the panel discussions looking for SDCC long-timers to interview, folks who have seen the show metastasize from what it was in 1970 — an opportunity for 300 fans to paw through some back issue bins in a hotel ballroom and meet Jack Kirby and Ray Bradbury — to what it is today.

3. You, dear reader. I'm hoping that all that aforementioned research will help me bring a wider historical context to my coverage of the con for NPR. Oh, there'll be photos of cosplayers, never fear. Trust me, I'll be the Tom Joad of hot dudes in spandex. ("Wherever there is a bare-chested Hawkman, you will find me... Wherever there is Kraven the Hunter, I'll be there.") And I'll try to provide a sense of the upcoming movies and shows that people on the floor are excited about. But you can get that kind of coverage anywhere.

What I'll look for, in this diary, is the scrappy little comic book convention hidden inside the exultant corporate branding workshop that is Comic-Con. I'll be asking people I meet what books they love that not enough people know about. I hope to come away from the next four days with a list of books and series to get excited about.

4. It's maybe time to get over my damn self already. I've gotten to be Twitter-friendly with several people who'll be at SDCC, and I hope — in stark defiance of my ingrained, muscular, weaponized form of introversion — to meet them in person, and buy them a beer or six.

(Also: The great and good Maggie Thompson, who with her husband Don gave birth to comic-book fandom [and also gave birth to NPR Music's own Stephen Thompson, for their sins] has offered to be a voluble, wise and extremely well-connected Virgil to my squirrelly, hyperventilating Dante. She's also invited me as her +1 to the Eisner Awards on Friday night, where the comics industry honors its own.)

To force myself to engage with others while I'm at SDCC, I've decided to take two hundred or so Pop Culture Happy Hour ... buttons? Lapel pins? You know those metal dealies you stuck to your backpack, back in the day? Those. I'll hand them out – A CON EXCLUSIVE!!! (say, maybe I'm good at marketing after all?) – like Johnny Frickin' Buttonseed.

Which brings me back to the dilemma that faces me now, at ...

4:45 a.m. ET: These buttons are awfully pointy. They're basically 200 elaborately decorated needles. Or if you prefer: 200 tiny, tiny pikes that may not, given their size, be considered "deadly." "Ouchy"? Oh my yes. "Deadly?" No.

So: Can I carry them on the plane? We're really really trying not to check any luggage. The thought of waiting at a baggage carousel for a bunch of lapel pins fills me with a very specific form of sadness which is only the latest aspect of my life that would be impossible to explain to my grandparents.

Last night we asked Twitter what to do. Twitter said, "That would raise eyebrows!" Twitter said "Don't risk it." Twitter said "Mail them to your hotel room!"

Twitter worries a lot.

We called the airline. "Put them in a clear plastic baggie, and have it go through the x-ray machine alone," the airline said. "Should be fine."

But then, the airline also said the plane will be on time. So. I mean. Pound of salt, you know?

Regardless! We're taking them in a carry on bag! Because we're LIVIN' ON THE EDGE!

4:50 a.m ET: Walk the dog, who'll have a longish wait until the dogsitter comes. The dog attends to his morning ablutions. Groggily. Grudgingly. You and me both, pal.

5:15 a.m. ET: In the cab! On the way to Comic-Con! Wooo! Flight's not till 6:30! Plenty of time! Using the boarding pass app on our phones! Wooo!

5:25 a.m. ET: HOLY CRAP I LEFT MY I.D. BACK AT THE APARTMENT TURN THE CAB AROUND WE HAVE TO GO BACK OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD

5:35 a.m. ET: WHY ARE THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS SO LONG AT THIS TIME OF THE MORNING THERE'S ONLY LIKE MILKMEN ON THE ROADS RIGHT? YES THERE ARE SO STILL MILKMEN AROUND SHUT UP.

5:40 a.m. ET: OKAY WE GOT IT. Now please hurry. It's going to be tight.

6:00 a.m. ET: Airport. More anxiety: I watch the bag of Pop Culture Happy Hour lapel pins disappear into the maw of the x-ray machine to bathe in roentgens – and in the baleful gaze of a security professionals.

6:15 a.m. ET: The gods are merciful, and brand-conscious, this day. The PCHH pins make it through.

6:20 a.m. ET: As we board, I inspect my fellow passengers, expecting to catch knowing looks from fellow members of my nerdy tribe. .... Nope. This flight doesn't go straight to San Diego, though. We're going to change planes in Minneapolis. Nobody looks like they're SDCC-bound. Unless they're cosplaying as Jim Gaffigan.

9:15 a.m. ET: Leaving Minneapolis; headed to San Diego. If we stay on time, we should arrive at 11:00 a.m. Pacific Time. We will head to the hotel, where F will meet some friends from Miami, and do outdoorsy vacation-type things in San Diego, the chump.

I, on the other hand, will coordinate with Maggie, head to the Convention Center, get my press pass and wait in line for the floor to open for "Preview Night" at 6:00 p.m.

I look around the plane. Okay. HERE's my people: Two young women ahead of us carry Doctor Who Cabbage Patch Dolls (Four and Eleven, for the nerds among you) as they chat animatedly about Batroc the Leaper. Across the aisle, a lean and hungry dude clutches his portfolio worriedly. The six-year-old behind me ticks off the Thursday schedule for Hall H from memory.

The floor won't open for hours. But Comic-Con has begun.