Lawn Guy Land & LoHo

The theme of the weekend was Decadence.

One of the great things about living at 209 was that my flatmates shared the same joie de vivre for food. Sure, lots of people say they like to eat, but with us, it was more like we lived to eat. (See: driving an hour to Binghamton just to get pumpkin pancakes at IHOP.) Megan has been reading 1001 Things to Eat Before You Diet, so armed with recommendations from that, we descended upon Long Island and the Lower East Side.

Long Island is renowned for its pizza and bagels, so our first stop was at a pizza place listed in the book. It wasn't the best pizza I've ever had (that honor goes to fried calamari pizza from Jersey), but my cheese slice, crisp and eaten folded in half, was still a refreshing change of pace from the deep-dish pervasive in Chicago eateries. Later that night, we grabbed ice cream from Magic Fountain in Mattituck. The guy behind the counter loved us, and kept offering more samples before we finally committed to carrot cake, cranberry, gingerbread and apple pie.

At this point, we were disgustingly full, but that didn't stop us from driving to the American Legion bar...to hang out with Megan's dad. See, Megan's dad was (is) definitely quite the popular guy back in his day, and just because he's not in his 20s any more doesn't mean he doesn't know how to have a good time, no sirree. In the span of an hour that afternoon, he was hopping to about 3 holiday parties. Sheesh, I don't think I've ever had 3 competing parties to attend. Megan is understandably not so keen on hearing her dad's tales of bar brawls with the boys, but hey, Tommy's not going to let a wife and kids get him down, right?

At the American Legion, we were greeted by Megan's dad, and his chums at the bar were thrilled to meet Tommy's daughter and Tom's daughter's friend (me). Seriously, if we'd wanted to get schwasted for free, we could have easily gotten free drinks from everyone at the bar. Many back thumps and group hugs later, we extricated ourselves from the bunch of rowdy 40-year-olds. It's funny to think we were basically at a frat party, except with people who have kids our age. (Fear not, T-Fizz opted to walk home instead of drive.)

For the rest of the weekend, we explored the Lower East Side, which is filled with neat ethnic eateries, tenements, and hipsters. (All the better for avoiding tourist hordes in midtown Manhattan.) The area loosely encompasses everything from Chinatown and Little Italy to the East Village. The Lower East Side Tenement Museum offers tours of the neighborhood, so we stopped by for a crash course and to see an old tenement. Historically, the area began as a center for German and Irish immigrants, with more Irish than the city of Dublin in the 19th century. Then, as these immigrants became wealthier, they moved out and were replaced by Italians and Eastern Europeans. In turn, these populations have largely been supplanted by Chinese immigrants, and today, the historic heart of Little Italy is filled with bustling Chinese shops. It's funny to think that perhaps a century from now Chinatown will be gone, and will be replaced with Little Ghana, or something to that effect. Will Chinese food stop being cheaply ubiquitous, and become more upper-crust, like Italian cuisine?

Though most of the Jews have since moved away, there are still a number of historic Jewish establishments in the area. In short order, I tried hard salami and roast beef at Katz's Deli (there was a sign indicating "This is where Harry met Sally."), a sweet potato knish from Yonah Schimmel's (simultaneously rich & savory yet light), chocolate babka, fruity rugelach, halvah (mm, sesame-flavored chalk), a full-sour pickle (pickled string beans & celery, anyone?), a chestnut donut (technically not Jewish but still amazing), a bialy from Kossar's (similar to a bagel, but not boiled), and a bagel with lox, capers, red onion and tomato from Russ & Daughters ($8.50 and 45 min in line later, it was worth every cent/min). I found myself humming "Hava Nagila," as shop workers shouted Yiddish over the telephone. My stomach was working at ludicrous speed.

The highlight of the trip came when we randomly strolled into a Tibetan restaurant for dinner. Dinner was good, albeit not terribly exciting, but on a lark, we ordered dessert and this turned out to be the best thing since sliced bread. Tsampa is a traditional Tibetan staple, made of ground roasted barley, somewhat similar to rice pudding. This version came flavored with honey and dried cranberries, and it was LIFE. With the hope of recreating the dish at home, I looked up tsampa recipes, but they require esoteric ingredients like yak butter. Bummer.

I can't wait to do it again in Boston.

On Chicago Nightlife

In general, I don't frequent areas of Chicago which are considered dangerous, unless you count trips to Hyde Park. As with living in any urban area though, it's sort of intuitive that you need a little extra vigilance as you go about the city, particularly at night. On the other hand, I've always been pretty laissez-faire about safety precautions. This is probably a product of having lived in suburbia most of my life, and combined with equal parts omnipotence and hubris, I have no qualms about say, running at night along the Lake Shore path.

This morning, for the first time, I felt a little nervous about being a single female in the city. To explain, I had a 6:30 am flight out of O'Hare, heading to JFK for a weekend in NY before trekking home for Christmas. When I booked this flight, my decision was based mostly on price, plus I figured I could make the most of Friday if I landed at 9:30. Now, it takes about an hour and a half on the train to get to O'Hare, plus time to check in and be bored at the gate...I ended up setting my alarm for 2:45 am.

At 3:30 am, I had gotten to the entrance of the station, just as a train screeched away. I silently swore to myself. (If only I hadn't stopped to brush my teeth, if only I'd packed my computer the night before...) This turned out to be a rather costly error. The red line only runs every 20-30 minutes at this time of night, and more irritating, there were 3-4 girls at the other end of the platform screaming and arguing vociferously. One of the girls seemed to be circling another around a bench. I glanced around nervously, eyeing the security guard in the ticket booth.

As the din increased, the security guard ambled over to the other end of the platform to investigate. A train pulled up, but much to my dismay, it was traveling in the wrong direction. A few people got off, craning their necks at the commotion, and one guy exclaimed, "Damn bitches, this silliness has got to stop!" and strolled over to the other end to "help." Shouts of "Bitch!" and "You ain't no sista of mine!" Good god, I thought, it is far too early in the morning for this, and if someone pulls out a gun or something...The clamor was now growing louder, as the group moved up the platform toward me. The Mediator Guy had his arms wrapped around one girl, to pin her arms back, and he was telling her to calm down and go home. Meanwhile, her taunter was yelling "Fuck you! You can suck my titties!" and as she rounded the bend, it was quite clear that you could indeed do this, because she had taken off her shirt and bra. Have I mentioned that it was far too early in the morning for me to handle this?

Luckily, a north-bound train pulled up, and I hastily clambered on. The squabbling sisters got on as well, and the train sat there for another 5 or 10 minutes as the fight continued on the train. Christ. I'm not sure what the end result was, but we finally got going and the fight was definitely a popular subject for the CTA workers on board.

All in all, it was a little more excitement than I'd bargained for. Let's see how the Orange line fares when I fly back through Midway.

We've got that oppressed minority bond going on...

Pastrami egg rolls and Chinese hot dogs from Eden Wok on 34th Street

As Christmas approaches in less than a week, I want to take a moment to celebrate the culinary kinship between the Chinese and the Jew.

What do any of these elements have in common? Well, for starters, Chinese and Jews are two of the largest ethnic enclaves in America which do not traditionally celebrate Christmas. Secondly, Chinese cuisine, with its heavy use of garlic and onion seasonings, and pronounced lack of dairy products, tends to be inadvertently Kosher and friendly to Jewish palates. Throw in the usual stereotypes about model minorities and aptitude in mathematics, and you've got a match made in heaven.

Ergo, since nearly everything else is closed, if you're a Jew, your only option on Christmas is to go out for Chinese food and see a movie. This relationship has been explored in quite a few academic papers and parodied in many a song. Up till now though, I haven't seen any evidence of cross-pollination between the culinary regimes.

Enter the pastrami egg roll and Chinese hot dog, profiled today in the NYT. I'm not sure if the new hybrids would be superior to the original versions, but it's worth a shot. What'll they come up with next? Gefilte fish wontons? Red bean challah?

If Chinese food has become such a staple of American Jewish diets, why is the converse not true? I'll be in New York this weekend, eating my way through the Lower East side and keeping an eye out for Asians in Katz's Deli.

Road Trip to IOWA

Last weekend, Katherine and I decided to take a road trip to Iowa to visit Warren, since he took the time to visit Chicago a couple times over the summer. Besides, doesn't everyone aspire to travel to Iowa one day? Right.

As we drove to Cedar Rapids, we passed a Hummer dealership (there were actually very few non-American cars on the road) and the world's largest truck stop. Seriously, we're talking about a big mother-trucker, 2 1/2 times the size of Disneyland. I started to worry about the fact that this state has a caucus, and that it matters. Is Iowa a representative slice of the country, a swing state? I've been living in blue areas for so long that I can't remember what America's "heartland" is like.

Cedar Rapids is an industrial town in eastern Iowa, home to a number of manufacturing plants, agricultural warehouses, and a Super Walmart and a Super Target (whoa!). The town slogan is "the City of 5 Seasons," where the 5th season is the time you spend appreciating the other four. (No joke.) Outside of Cedar Rapids, the town is also popularly known as Cedar Crapids, or the City of 5 Smells. After driving past the Quaker Oats factory and through Warren's corn processing plant, I have now smelled two of the five smells, and hope to never experience the other three. Despite the questionable odor, driving around the corn processing plant was kind of neat. Have you ever wondered where high fructose corn syrup comes from? Glucose? Maltodextrin? All the ingredients in tiny print that go into every processed food you buy, well they start percolating right here.

For the most part though, the town had all the chain restaurants and shopping malls you could want, the usual assemblage of IHOPs, Applebees' and Olive Gardens. Then there were local oddities, like the Kum & Go gas stations and Culver's, which featured "frozen custard butterburgers." Ironically, the latter was located next to an emergency healthcare clinic. For dinner, I decided to veto going to Pei's Mandarin, advertising the "best oriental food in east Iowa," and opted for a Mexican place instead.

Speaking of Asians, we were browsing the Wikipedia article on Cedar Rapids and came across the demographics section. The town's population includes 0.06% people of Asian descent, so with a population of around 120,000, this comes out to...72 Asians. That would mean my presence in Cedar Rapids handily increased the Asian population by over 1%.

Since the Wikipedia article was sadly devoid of appealing attractions in Cedar Rapids (Czech & Slovak Museum, anyone?), I jokingly suggested that we go to the Planet X Fun Center. After all, how can you possibly go wrong with a place that has space bikes, bowlingo, and laser tag? The answer is: many, many ways. Perhaps this is why beer buckets were on sale, with 5 beers for $10. After surveying the turtle-slow bumper cars and the light-up alien whacking game with half of its lights burnt out, we decided to spring for a round of mini-golf. The course was actually fairly difficult, but I miraculously came away with 3 hole-in-ones and won by one point!

Later that night, we drove to Iowa City, home of the University of Iowa, to meet up with Andrew, Warren's new boyfriend. Andrew was super nice, and also super tall. At 6'9", he towered over my 5'1" self, and we bonded over how it was difficult for both of us to find clothing that fit. In the meantime, Iowa City was much cuter than Cedar Rapids, with a nice pedestrian mall, ample bars, and a Pita Pit! I never frequented Pita Pit much as an undergrad, but it was still refreshing to see one of the late night food joints (DP Dough, Wings Over) you typically see in college towns. Unfortunately, the gay bar was kind of dead on this particular night, so we dropped into another bar, packed with screaming sorostitutes, frat boys, and girls wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and mini-skirts. Even my jello shot could not stave off my irritation with this bar; this is why I never went to anything but Stella's while at Cornell. And, I don't know if I've aged that much in the last 5 months, but somehow everyone seemed to look really young. Maybe this is one more step along the road to becoming an old fogey.

Back at Andrew's house, his housemate Marta had offered to let us sleep in her bed, since she was in Madison for the weekend. I never thought I'd be sleeping in the bed of the lesbian roommate of the boyfriend of my friend's gay friend in Iowa. Also, Marta had a Moosewood cookbook on her bookshelf, which meant my respect for her automatically doubled.

The drive back was rather a bitch. Freezing rain had been coming down all weekend, and the roads were pretty icy. I stopped for gas at a BP, which had a wretched-looking church next door, with a sign that read, "No Jesus, no peace. Know Jesus, know peace." After we properly mocked the church and its sign, I pulled away and began to turn onto the highway on-ramp. Except I kept turning, and in a slow skid, the rear end of my car fishtailed 180 degrees. It was my first major skid, and I felt oddly calm during the experience, as though I were looking down on the scene from afar. Luckily, the cars around us had stopped to stare blankly at us, and no one got hit. And hey, it wouldn't be a road trip without a near-death experience to cap it off, right?

Jersey Boys

In recent years, Broadway has seen the debut of a slew of shows based on existing musical acts. There's Mamma Mia!, based on songs from ABBA, and Movin' Out, presenting the Billy Joel catalogue. After all, baby boomers who grew listening to bands from the '60s and '70s are now in their prime earning years, and regularly frequent the theater.

Then again, though these are some of the more popular "jukebox musicals," Good Vibrations and All Shook Up (featuring songs from the Beach Boys and Elvis Presley) certainly demonstrate that having a large fan base doesn't necessarily translate to Broadway success. Personally, I have mixed feelings about writing musicals around a pre-existing band, since it seems like it would stymie the creation of original material and dumb down Broadway. Besides, isn't the point of musical theater to discover new music, not just rehash old favorites?

My misgivings aside, I still happily agreed to go see Jersey Boys with Britton last night. The musical is a fictionalized account of Frankie Vallie & the Four Seasons and their rise to stardom. Take the usual hard-knocks tale of struggling teens with a gift for music, add in some Jersey mobsters and a cameo by a young Joe Pesci, and presto, you have yourself a plot. The play is divided into four parts, or movements, if you will, each named after a different season and narrated by one of the four members. My favorite band member was Bob Gaudio, who shot to fame after writing "(Who Wears) Short Shorts" at age 15. He is considered the most cerebral of the bunch, and is responsible for writing many of the Four Seasons' hits.

Joisey Girl: So, who's the girl in the song? Your girlfriend?
Gaudio: No, it could be any girl. Every girl. It's what T.S. Eliot called the objective correlative.
Joisey Girl: You're not from around here, are you?

The true star of the night though was the Four Seasons' music itself. I've casually listened to many of their songs on the radio, but this was the first time I'd examined their discography in detail. And some of their lesser known hits are incredibly catchy. Take a listen to "Rag Doll"; supposedly it's based on the true story of Gaudio who was approached by beggar girl in Manhattan. In between an incredible falsetto from the actor playing Frankie Valli and the cute doo-wop choreography, I was pining for the good ol' days of boy bands wearing suits. By the end of the night, we were all singing and clapping along to the encore of "December 1963 (Oh, What a Night)." I've never seen an auditorium so full of smiles.

________________

One more aside: I needed to fix a bike flat before the show, so I trekked to the nearest bike shop looking for help. They were closed for the day, but luckily, a cop was around and offered to help me fix my flat. (Brings new meaning to the phrase "to serve and protect.") In the midst of this, who strolls out of the shop?! Joe, whose last 4-5 messages I've been ignoring. Cue awkward conversation...Go figure, a city of 8 million people, and I manage to run into the one person I'm actively trying to avoid. After he left, my friend Britton (and the cop) were gut-busting laughing at me. Now that, was the clutch part of the evening.

Blog Reading Level

Typically I find quiz results on blogs quite irritating, but I thought I'd cave on this occasion because the results actually pertain to the blog itself. (It's meta, no?) It looks like all that time in college paid off, because my writing is on par with someone with an undergraduate education.

Since I'm uber competitive about such matters, I did a quick survey of some of the other sites I frequent (and competing blogs). Here's how the results stacked up:

Random sample of 4 friends' blogs: 2 elementary school, 2 junior high
The New York Times: junior high (this surprised me a bit, but it's likely due to only headlines being posted on the main page)
Slate: high school
Marginal Revolution: high school
Chronicle of Higher Education: college (undergrad)
Greg Mankiw's blog: college (post grad)
The Becker-Posner blog: genius
The Economist: genius (woo, best publication ever!)
Ars Technica: genius

Conclusion: it helps to write about a specialized topic (you use more obscure terminology), longer posts tend to be more complex, and the Brits are amazing.

Tis the Season

It's been rather a turbulent last 24 hours. But all bad things must come to an end, so I'm going to take a moment to write about things that make me happy and for which I am grateful.

-My friends: even though most of you are in different time zones, we manage to bridge the distance with phone calls and IMs. Any time I need to talk, to share exciting news or lament a loss, I can count on a captive audience. Moreover, I take away something new from each of you, be it quantum mechanics, early education policy, or Broadway trivia, or even just how to live life. I am proud to know such an eclectic, talented bunch of people.

-My family: I don't think anyone but Chester can ever fully appreciate how insane our parents are, but that's who raised me, for better or worse. :) I credit my hyper-efficiency and resourcefulness to being the child of immigrant parents, and even though they sometimes put crazy demands on me, I can always count on them to support me, unconditionally. This is perhaps the most striking distinction I've seen with other people's relationships with their parents. Plus, my mom can be wicked funny.

-My job: after speaking with so many other recent graduates who are dissatisfied with their jobs, I am all the more grateful that I stumbled upon mine after a chance conversation with Dean L. Sure, I could be making lots more as a consultant or in finance, but the extra money wouldn't make up for the flexibility and autonomy I have at the Fed. More importantly, I'm in an intellectually stimulating environment, with the opportunity to hone research skills, take classes, and attend seminars on everything from heavy-duty econometrics to the effects of fasting during Ramadan on fetal cognitive development. It's like Cornell, without the stress of grades.

-My time in Ithaca: when people ask me whether I liked Cornell, I reply that I not only loved it, I loved the town of Ithaca. It's funny to think that 4 years ago Ithaca was barely on my map, especially with its ominous winters and rural location. But Ithaca has a way of charming its way into your heart, and although I love being in a city, I'd happily trade it in for Ithaca's waterfalls, trails and co-op groceries. And let's be serious, 4 years ago, I would not have been interested in hiking, my nose would have turned up at the idea of seitan and tempeh, and there's no way I would have considered biking to work. Ithaca has a way of changing you.

-My self: this one is harder than it looks because I tend to be pretty hard on myself. (Maybe it's that Asian instinct for self-improvement.) I've come to realize that I don't need to apologize for my quirks and oddities though, even if they sometimes hold me back from success. So, I'm going to take a quick narcissistic moment to revel in my own accomplishments. I'm smart enough, good enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!

Here's to a happy, healthy 2008.

Anterograde Amnesia

Last night was a good time. Or so they tell me. In my mind, I remember playing a round of kings, and then seeing people leave as the party ended, so a solid 2-3 hour chunk of my Sat night has gone AWOL. Luckily, after I woke up on his wet (because I spilled water on it) couch, Chris was around to fill me in on what I missed. Apparently, I was holding conversations, dancing, and helping him clean up afterwards. At one point, I paused and said, "I think I'm going to throw up." and then nonchalantly proceeded to go to the bathroom and do just that. He says my aim was pretty good, though he had to clean the toilet seat a little. Cringe*

This is the first time I've ever blacked out, and although everyone is semi-congratulating me, I'm actually pretty bothered. It's amazing to me that I was conscious and acting fairly normal, but none of this registered with my memory, as if I were on autopilot for a few hours last night. My inner control freak is flipping out about what I did and said. I guess it's a small comfort that I didn't do anything too crazy. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have heard about it by now.

After I got home and brushed my teeth for a long time, I looked up the wiki on blackouts. It looks like I had a textbook case of an en bloc blackout; as I read the article, I thought, check, check, yup did that too. It turns out that the speed at which you consume alcohol determines whether you black out, and I was downing some cranberry and vodkas at an efficient pace.

Remind me not to do that ever again.

John Williams (!)

Tonight, I saw the legendary John Williams conduct the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. I can die happy now.

Let's take a moment to consider the span of Williams' career. As a conductor, he helmed the Boston Pops for 14 years, and still frequently conducts in Boston and at Tanglewood. And as a composer, he has been a prolific scorer for decades in Hollywood and written lots of orchestral pieces to boot. Jaws, Star Wars, Superman, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter, Schindler's List, Jurassic Park, actually every feature film by Spielberg except one, plus music for four Olympic games...little wonder he's received 45 Academy Award nominations, second only to Walt Disney. In 1977, when music for Star Wars beat out Close Encounters of the Third Kind, he lost to himself. The man is a titan.

There were two programs being presented, and I decided on the one with less popular fare. The other concert featured entirely movie music, which would've been fun too, but I was interested in hearing some of Williams' concert pieces. Also, I figured I had a better chance at getting good seats on a Tuesday night, and lo and behold, I ended up in row E on the main floor.

The first half of the concert featured a fanfare, a tribute piece for BSO's Seiji Ozawa, and a bassoon concerto. After intermission, the orchestra launched into music from Memoirs of a Geisha (with a great cello solo), Witches of Eastwick, and E.T. Stylistically, the concert pieces were quite similar to his cinematic works. I was trying to put my finger on what makes a piece sound like film music. Williams makes heavy use of repeated themes and leitmotifs, particularly in Star Wars, and these tend to be memorable sound bites that you can take away after the movie. He also makes sure the brass section stays busy, often using them, rather than strings, to introduce themes. Endings often employ stingers which adds to the theatrical flair.

Normally, I'm anti-standing ovations. I think they're used too widely, which waters down the significance. In fact, I can't remember the last concert I attended which did not have a standing-O. Sure, you should stand for extra emphasis if a concert was phenomenal, but not every time. What happened to the good ol' days when the audience threw tomatoes? Kidding...At any rate, the standing ovation was well-warranted tonight, and we stood and applauded non-stop when the concert was over. This served to encourage two encores, and I was all too happy to keep listening as the orchestra launched into music from Star Wars.

On Dreams

Do you ever wake up with a song in your head, and you don't know where it's from, whether you've heard it before, or if you simply just made it up in your dreams? And you keep looping it in your mind because it's like playing hot potato--once the music stops, you lose it.

Yesterday, to further procrastinate working on Nanowrimo, I got onto the subject of Freudian dream analysis, which I learned about from good ol' Desire last spring. Now, I am inclined to think the Freudian methodology is entirely bunk (as Ellis said, "You could milk sex out of a stone."), but like sleight of hand chicanery, it is a lot of fun to demonstrate on other people.

For instance:

...I wanted to attack the witch but everyone was afraid.

The classic question: which which? The action takes place while traveling. If we take "witch" as an overdetermined word, perhaps it suggests an uncertainty over your options. Which path to take? Which programs to apply to? Which future to seek out, if that is even something you can control? "Attacking the which," I diagnose graduation anxiety. Meanwhile, everyone else around you is also afraid and anxious.

So what about myself? Well, the usual freakshow aside, I remember one bit distinctly from last night. I was coming in for a job interview to be the restaurant critic of the New York Times, and the interview required me to meet with my three predecessors: Mimi Sheraton, Bryan Miller, and Ruth Reichl. As part of the interview, I was required to do tastings and give my opinion on the spot. For Mimi, it was cognac, for Bryan, beer, and Ruth presented wine. At that point, I panicked and fled.

There really isn't much to analyze here. I recently finished reading Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires, her memoirs from being food critic at the NYT. Never before have I fallen in love so quickly with a book; I decided I had to buy it before the first chapter was up. Seriously, if you enjoy eating, you will enjoy this book. Naturally, I've been toying with the idea of what it'd be like to be a food critic, and how to get there in oh, 20 years. It seems like my odds at helming a food critic position at a major publication are even lower than being granted tenure at a prestigious university. Oy veh. And my dream pointed to my strongest weakness for this job: although I'm fairly literate about food ingredients, I know next to nothing about alcohol, particularly wine. Hold on while I kick myself for not taking wines last spring.

And I just lost the hot potato.

Second City improv

When I announced my decision to move to Chicago, people mentioned the city's comedy scene was top-notch. Then, I got here and started spending all my money on restaurants and bars, figuring that watching my friends was comedic enough. Last night though, we took a trip to Second City to see their latest revue, "Between Barack and a Hard Place."

Second City is an improvisational comedy troupe that has been based in Chicago since the '60s, and as it turns out, they are the training ground for many prominent comedians. Scanning the walls with photos from old performances, I caught lots of familiar names and faces: Steve Carrell, Nia Vardalos, Rachel Dratch, Tina Fey, Stephen Colbert, Chris Farley...basically, this is the feeder school for Saturday Night Live. It's neat to think that perhaps I saw the next big comedian before they made it big.

The show itself didn't disappoint, though I had expected more Obama references or political material. (He was mentioned in a few sketches, but wasn't the core of the show by any means.) There were a few opportunities for the audience to yell suggestions for improv bits. ("Love is like a...what, guys?" "Mistress!" "Oookay man, that's pretty screwed up. Love is like a mistress...hm, what rhymes with mistress??") I was blown away by the speed at which the performers think on their feet, coming up with songs on the spot and creating routines in a matter of seconds. Also, this was the second performance of the night (there's one at 8 and 11 pm), which makes for a pretty long night of performing. The icing on the cake was the music. I couldn't crane my head around the corner to verify, but I am positive the piano was live and improvised to match what happening on stage. Whistles*

Here's a snippet from an old show. I've heard their "Greatest Hits" show is also quite good, so if anyone else is game...

(lack of) Progress

November's over halfway over and there's pretty much no way I'm going to hit 50,000 words by the end of the month. I got distracted by work, there were birthday parties to attend to, my mind has been focused on pursuits far from the solitude of writing.

Which is not to say the effort I've expended so far has been a complete waste. I actually think the germ of an idea I started with could (with a lot more TLC) blossom into something that would be enjoyable to read. But that path is dark and toilsome, and my resolve is faltering. Then, in an effort to see good writing, I start reading instead, and wonder how Bill Bryson manages so effortlessly to weave his sentences into a narrative, and be funny to boot.

Add to all this increasing anxiety about what I want to do with my life. Lately, I've been shying away from the idea of econ grad, but then I don't know what I'd pursue in lieu of academia. It's not so much the misery of being in grad school that scares me, I've just been giving more thought to the other opportunities I'd be passing up. Sure, I'd be happy in a research environment, but I think I'd also be highly effective as an entrepreneur. And then, I daydream about being a food critic. Or a university president. Those are my current ideal jobs at the moment, and both fields are naturally quite competitive.

Norman Mailer died last week, and though I've only read one of his works and wasn't a huge fan, he is certainly part of the canon of 20th century American literature. More importantly, in this age of celebrity, he had an outsize personality to match. From the NYT memorial article, we get this colorful description:

At different points in his life Mr. Mailer was a prodigious drinker and drug taker, a womanizer, a devoted family man, a would-be politician who ran for mayor of New York, a hipster existentialist, an antiwar protester, an opponent of women's liberation and an all-purpose feuder and short-fused brawler, who with the slightest provocation would happily engage in head-butting, arm-wrestling and random punch-throwing. Boxing obsessed him and inspired some of his best writing. Any time he met a critic or a reviewer, even a friendly one, he would put up his fists and drop into a crouch.

Well, whatever I decide to do, it looks like it's never too late to change your mind.

Nanowrimo

In other news, it is November, so I am participating in Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) for the 2nd year in a row. The goal is to finish a novel or write 50,000 words by the end of the month, which comes out to about 1,667 words a day, or 2 1/2 singled spaced, 12 font pages. (Of course, my real goal is to simply beat Matt's word count...) For those naysayers who say that this results in an emphasis of quantity over quality, you're right, but I think it's better to get people to start writing, period. I don't think any literary masterpieces are going to spring from Nanowrimo, but it does provide impetus for people to sit down and write. And maybe I'll be motivated enough to add to my lexicon and help stop world hunger while I'm at it.

As for last year's try, let's just say that unless you counted my thesis proposal toward my word count, my attempt was rather a miserable failure. Also, I didn't really have a plot in mind when I started writing, and the stream of consciousness dried up fairly quickly. But this year, sans classes and with a large supply of cute, bohemian cafes at my disposal, I am feeling much more optimistic! See you all in December.

American Baseball and Mexican Food Bonanza

Well, the 2007 World Series has come to an end, and the Boston Red Sox once again emerge victorious. I am the first to admit my ignorance on sports, but after having baseball explained to me a few weeks ago during a Cubs game, I decided to exhibit some Masshole pride and follow the rest of the Series. After climbing out of a 3-1 hole against the Cleveland Indians in the American League series, the Red Sox went on to face the Colorado Rockies, which had come in with 21 wins in their last 22 games. Unfortunately for them, the Sox went on to massacre them in their next game 13-1, and the next 3 games didn't go much better. Let's hear it for a phenomenal sweep!

The foodie in me was much more interested in the "Steal a Base, Steal a Taco" promotion that Taco Bell was running. Basically, if a player stole a base during the World Series, Taco Bell would pass out a free crunchy beef taco (valued at 77 cents) to everyone in American (population 300+ million). The odds were looking pretty good, since there's been a stolen base in every series since 1990, and sure enough, in Game 2, Red Sox centerfielder Jacoby Ellsbury stole a base, earning America free tacos, and himself the nickname "Tacoby Bellsbury." Oh boy.

Since the promotion was held on Tuesday between 2 and 5 pm, I dragged a group of Feddies from work at 4:30 and we tracked down the nearest Taco Bell. Including ourselves, there were probably a dozen or so people mooching free tacos, and one or two who were actually buying something. Amusingly enough, as we got our free food, Taft got a text message (from an unknown number) that said "Happy free taco day!"

The next day was Halloween, and Haley tipped us off that Chipotle would be giving out free burritos. The catch was that you had to come dressed as a burrito, which basically meant wearing some sort of tin foil. Money and dignity are close substitutes for me at this point, so I readily agreed to burritofy myself for a free boo-rito. You'd be surprised at how much mobility is impaired after being wrapped in foil; we were having lots of difficulty navigating stairs. I think my robot dance got the added benefit of character realism though. And my veggie fajita burrito tasted (almost) as amazing as a Statler wrap.

As it turns out, Chipotle gives out free burritos fairly often for various holidays. I'll be keeping my eye out when leap year rolls around next year.

Critical Mass, Halloween Edition

Despite our vows not to go back next month because it would be cold and miserable, the last Friday of October rolls around and once again, I find myself at Critical Mass. The reasoning was that it was nearly Halloween, and what could possibly be better than an unruly mob of cyclists? Answer: an unruly mob of cyclists in crazy costumes. Besides, next month would be even more cold and miserable, so we should go this month. (Let's see if this reasoning holds up again in Nov.)

I'd been musing over a few costume ideas (gay Dumbledore, kid from E.T., Elphaba the (not so) Wicked Witch, cross dresser [the story of a frustrated bureau]) but I was having trouble piecing together key ingredients, like a stuffed E.T. doll. After standing in the rapidly emptying costume aisle at Target for a while, I gave up and went back to the drawing board. Then it hit me - I should be an accident victim! This was all the more appropriate for CM because lots of us have actually been hit by cars, including myself (twice).

I took a white t-shirt and was going to drive over it to create tracks. On second thought, I grabbed the spare tire, rolled it through some mud, then rolled it over the shirt. Add some streaks of fake blood, bandages and gauze on the forehead, and a leafy twig sticking out from my ear and voila, I was rocking the disheveled, just-got-run-over look. Note: this is what I wore to work on Friday.

Unfortunately, it was forecasted to pour that night. After a vigorous debate, Ana managed to convince everyone not to wimp out. Besides, she'd bought several packs of face paint and hair spray dye, and we were going to use them, dammit. So it's after 5 on Fri afternoon, and here I am, standing outside a cubicle, painting white circles around Katherine's eyes while Nathan is smearing a wax scar onto my cheek. An hour later, Ana has a scary clown frown, Katherine is Raggedy Ann, and Nate is rocking the David Bowie lightning bolt.

Eventually, we make it to Daley Plaza, which has been transformed with orange fountains and a haunted house. There are zombies on bikes, banjo players (being carted) on bikes, and a girl with a plunger dressed as Luigi passes us. Later that night, we spot a guy dressed as Mario, and excitedly tell him there's someone dressed as Luigi! He says that he talked to her earlier and they were going to meet up afterwards, but now he can't find Luigi in the crowd, and he's looking so if you can help...

Katherine: I'm looking for Raggedy Andy!
Me: Well, I'm looking for a sleazy TV lawyer!
Nate: And I'm looking for Mick Jagger!

At that point, the rain went from romantic sprinkle to cold and miserable pouring, and we left to go dry off. But I have faith that Mario and Luigi found each other somewhere in Coin Heaven.

Halloween Preview

Last night, I trekked out to the 'burbs for some good ol' fashioned Halloween fun with the Fed crew. Britton really wanted to go to a haunted house, and this one was advertised as being the #1 haunted house in IL. I glanced at the website, and figured that if it wasn't scary, at least they had a sense of humor when they included directions from Hell. (Take Lost Souls Blvd. and take a left on Decapitation Drive. Travel 666 km, then take a sharp right on Brimstone Blvd. Enter through the gates and listen for the screams...)

We showed up at 8:30 and ended up waiting in line for at least 2 hours. No worries though, before we got in line, we managed to mix up some vodka & gatorade and jack daniel's & coke. I swear the giggling and pouring out of liquids in the parking lot didn't look uber sketchy or anything. Plus, there were all sorts of dressed up zombies and ax murderers heckling us while we stood in line. All in friendly fun, and after Chris let loose a really loud, high-pitched scream, one of them turned to us and said, "Is he gay?" Thought: what if some psycho decided to show up and chase people around for kicks, and you couldn't tell he wasn't part of the show?

Going through the house itself probably took 15-20 min, but with a proper suspension of disbelief, it was lots of fun. I was never that scared, but it's fun to scream your head off with other people. The best part was a tunnel with swirling lights overhead, which made you think the walkway was rotating. I could've sworn the floor was moving, but then I stepped into another room and all was righted.

---

Now, on to the scary part. I got my wisdom teeth pulled this morning, and after last night, had decided that I wasn't that squeamish and didn't need to be completely knocked out for the procedure. So, they gave me local anesthesia and laughing gas, and pretty soon I was feeling quite content, like I'd just downed about 4 beers, happy to ignore any sort of drilling noises or sutures going into my mouth. About 40 min later, I was done and ready to bounce.

Katherine picked me up after surgery, and when I stumbled out, she was a little concerned and kept asking me if I was all right. Too bad I had gauze in my mouth so I couldn't really talk, but instead kept mumbling incoherently and laughing, which elicited blank looks from her which caused me to laugh harder. It probably didn't help that I was still sort of on the laughing gas high. Simultaneously, blood was dripping out the side of my mouth, not that I could feel it because my entire face was numb. So picture us in the middle of the Loop, me laughing hysterically with bloody tissues clutched to my mouth and Katherine frantically telling passer byers coming out of the American Girl Store that everything was ok, really. I think I scared some small children today. And adults. And Katherine. At one point, she told me, "Um Crystal, you just dropped a piece of bloody gauze on the sidewalk," which made me laugh some more. It was highly special.

Anyway, we finally managed to get me home and find a box of popsicles. The right side of my face is swelling, but it's not noticeable, and I haven't been taking the Vicodine they gave me (just a few over the counter Motrins), so if anyone is interested in purchasing some narcotics, just let me know...

Return to Ithaca

There's nothing quite like walking into the bandroom and being greeted by freshmen with "Oh, you're THE legendary Crystal! We're so honored to be able to play with you!"

Or, being greeted by Dan with "So, when you said you were coming to town, I decided to write you a fanfare, a Fanfare for Crystal! Alas, I didn't quite finish it in time, but the first few bars are really cool...you're going to need a good subwoofer to listen to this."

I trekked back to Cornell for homecoming last weekend, and it was a whirlwind experience. Cornell is not a big football school at all, but as a former bandie, the weekend still holds significance as a period for retrospection. Alums come back to visit, steal your instrument to play "Pinball Wizard," and relive their hedonistic college days by drinking your alcohol. You try not to feel too disgruntled, with the promise that you too can come back in four years and be welcomed with open, band uniform-clad arms. This is a superior version of the circle of life, really.

It has been almost four months since I was last in Ithaca, a mere blip in time, but the changes are palpable. The Thurston bridge has reopened, and is strung with shockingly bright white LED lights. The parking lot between Bailey and Malott has been replaced by a flagstone plaza with oddly orange-y benchs and a overhang fountain on the southern end. Construction is beginning on a new building between Baker and Rockefeller. But wait, you say, there's no space for a building there. On the contrary, it looks like they're taking out a good chunk of the Baker lawn to put up this building. I mean, perhaps Clark is ugly and we should hide it behind another building, but still. Finally, I made a beeline to the clocktower as soon as I could, and was much dismayed to discover that my id card no longer works on the office door. For the last 3 years, the tower office was my one sure refuge on campus, always warm and open, filled with a frig, a couch, and a nice Mac. And now, that door is permanently closed to me.

Yet, despite the physical differences and the ever-present alarm that my time was limited, I was able to recapture some of that undergraduate zeitgeist, the animated intellectualism, the quirky vivacity that permeates Cornell and makes the abnormal normal. I sat in Stella's and discussed objects with non-integer dimension with Rhea, I hauled myself to the clocktower at 10:15 to chime the alma mater variations with Jen, I sang songs from "A Chorus Line" with Matt at 3 am, I watched a football game with 7 years worth of drumline members and still had the music to "Carry On My Wayward Son" memorized.

It was over in the blink of an eye, and I found myself scrambling at the end of Sat night, giving hasty goodbyes just 24 hours after long-awaited hellos. At 8 am the next morning, I jetted back to Chicago. It was cold and drizzling. I was in mourning.

I kept telling people I'd "see you later," but who knows when that will be? 6 months? A year? A decade?? Let's face it, this weekend was great because I found the familiarity of people and places I'd loved, but even a year from now, that might not be the case any more. People will graduate, move away, and move on with their lives. But at least for this one weekend, the magic was still there.

I realize I am extraordinarily lucky to have a job I love in a place I love. Catching up with the '007 crew, it's all too common to see people bored with their jobs, and worried about where their lives are going. When I flew away from Ithaca, at least I had something positive to come home to.

It still felt like I was ripping away a little piece of my heart.

And the Nobel Prize in Economics goes to...

The 2007 Nobel Prize in economics was announced today, and goes to three American economists: Eric Maskin (Princeton), Roger Myerson (Chicago), and Leonid Hurwicz (University of MN). As is often the case, the winners were not on the "short list" of potential candidates, but turned out to be unexpected dark horses.

This is the sort of story that journalists have nightmares about--a bunch of economists, whom they've never heard of, win a Nobel prize for developing a discipline, mechanism design theory, which they've also never heard of. To explain briefly, a mechanism is a framework of rules that enable a market to function efficiently. Many markets don't need mechanisms to work well, but lots do (think organ allocation, public goods like utilities or water, or the sale of rare paintings). Mechanism design can take a variety of forms, like taxation or the creation of auctions.

At age 90, Hurwicz is the oldest Nobel laureate in history. There was some talk that if the academy wanted to award him, they needed to do it soon before he died. As for Myerson, there was no shortage of opinions on him from the Chicago alums around the Fed cafeteria.

"One time, Myerson was running up the stairs so I held the door open for him at the top, and he blew right past me without saying a word!"

"Ha, in his mind he was probably thinking 'And that's the way it should be.' Myerson is notorious for taking things out on his grad students whenever he's angry. Apparently, one time he was pissed at Levitt (of Freakonomics fame) over, I dunno, a hiring decision or something, and at this grad student's seminar presentation, he just completely ripped a new one in him."

In the meantime, I'd like to give a shout out to this year's Ig Nobel Prize winners, who are recognized for quirky, entertaining and sometimes scientifically legitimate research. This year's laureates include the developers of the "gay bomb" which would provoke widespread homosexual behavior amongst enemy troops (Peace), researchers who ironed out the problem of how sheets get wrinkled (Physics), and Cornell's very own Prof. Brian Wansink, who studied mindless eating behavior using self-refilling bowls of soup (Nutrition).

Marathon Madness

The Chicago Marathon took place today and with the race route going down my street, it certainly made its presence known. As a matter of fact, I woke up bright and early at 9 am to the sounds of a rock band on the street corner. Super, I understand the need to keep the runners pepped and entertained, but there's no way you will make it to mile 22 just one hour after the start of the marathon, for crissakes. After a few valiant attempts to roll over, I decided to just climb out of bed and watch the marathon.

By this time, it was around 11 and the sun was beating down on the crowd outside. Runners were streaming past, and with temperatures in the high 80s and pushing 90, they were streaming sweat and mostly looking haggard and miserable. The Chicago Marathon is considered one of the easier competitions for marathoners because of the city's level terrain, but with the heat and humidity at record highs, no race records would be set today. Actually, runners were dropping like flies, collapsing on sidewalks and clamoring for water at the hydration stations. One man died and about a hundred others were taken to the hospital. Around noon or so, the race was called off and runners were told to return to the finish line. That pretty much killed my newly inspired goal of running the '08 marathon. (Damn global warming.)

Meanwhile, the elite runners had finished the race in dramatic style. I particularly enjoyed the live updates posted on the marathon website for the women's race:

10:35am - The men's winning time is confirmed as 2:11:11.

In the women's race, Pirtea still holds the lead, 25 seconds up on Adere. She can see the finish line and appears a sure winner. But Adere is sprinting like crazy.

10:37am - Pirtea is waving to the crowd. She has no idea that Adere is coming on like a jet plane. Adere is sprinting as if this is a 200 race. Pirtea thinks she has won. She has no clue of the danger. Adere is closing with every stride. She overtakes Pirtea just 50m from the line. Pirtea responds, but it's too late. Adere is charging for the line. This is incredible. Adere has retained her title. Pirtea is stunned. She collapses at the line. Notably, at 40K Pirtea had a 30 second lead. Kate O'Neill takes third.

And that kids, is why you never let down your guard.

There Exists a Vegetarian Diner!

Don't get me wrong, I love Chicago's restaurant scene and it certainly still holds many undiscovered facets for me. But Chicago is built on the values of Midwestern sensibility and blue-collar industriousness, "the City of Big Shoulders" as Carl Sandburg once wrote, and with that comes a certain practicality and adherence to convention. Thus, leading the list of hometown specialties is Chicago style pizza and Chicago hot dogs, which is fine and delicious and dandy, but generally I'm looking for more exotic fare.

So, on a lark, Katherine and I decided to google "Chicago vegetarian restaurants" to see if anything appetizing would pop up. Lo and behold, the first hit is for the Chicago Diner, whose slogan is "Meat Free since '83." This seemed sort of oxymoronic to me; aren't diners built on the concept of greasy spoon heart-attack-on-a-plate goodness? But according to the website, the restaurant has won all sorts of awards, plus their "Vegan Shakes are the Shiznit." Mad props are hereby awarded to any restaurant using "shiznit" on their website.

Glancing over the menu, I was reminded a lot of the ABC Cafe in Ithaca. I mean, a tempeh Reuben sandwich? Pfft, been there done that! But the rest of the menu was extensive, and I could have closed my eyes and pointed and been happy with what I ordered. Red pepper ravioli or a black bean burger? I ended up ordering the Polenta Fiesta, which included sun-dried tomato polenta topped with roasted sweet potatoes, spinach and rice & beans. Our waiter was similarly crunchy, and came equipped with shaggy hair and a beret. We kept telling him how happy we were to have discovered this place, and he was grooving right with us. "Yeah, Chicago tends to be big on meat...sometimes you just gotta detox, you know?"

Oddly enough, the Chicago Diner is planted smack in the middle of Boystown, the gay district in Chicago. (No really, it was the first officially recognized gay neighborhood in the U.S.) I would have expected a hippie, vegetarian diner to be closer to Wicker Park and the hipster sections of town. Even more amusing is the fact that Boystown is located in the middle of Lakeview, which has a reputation for being heteronormatively fratty, filled with popped collars and such.

You can't miss the boundaries of Boystown, since the blocks are adorned with (phallic) posts with tipped with rainbow stripes. After dinner, we did a little wandering around the neighborhood and walked past a cute store window filled with knick-knacks, like wedding cake toppers with homosexual and interracial couples. The next store also had a cute display...of mannequins bound in leather and chains. I don't walk into sex shops that often, but this one was well-endowed with all kinds of plastic parts and an extensive gay porn collection (lots of bare chests but no boobs in sight!).

I think this means we need to take a trip to Andersonville too (the lesbian district).

Critical Mass

Friday night marked the 10th anniversary of Critical Mass in Chicago. If you've never heard of this, Critical Mass is basically a mass rally of cyclists who gather on the last Fri of every month to bike through the city, take over the streets, block traffic and generally have a good time riding without fear of being hit by cars. The movement (if you can call it that) aspires to advocate cycling but has no official "platform" or "organization" or "leaders." In fact, the biking route isn't decided until the day of the rally, when people suggest possible maps and a general vote is taken. As you can imagine, the unregulated, unpredictable nature of the Mass tends to put the police in a bit of a bind, but in Chicago (unlike NYC) the cops are generally supportive and help block traffic, rather than arresting people for disorderly conduct.

This sounded like a massive block party on wheels, so I grabbed some fellow bikers and we headed out to the Mass start point at Daley Plaza. Problem: when we headed out, we discovered that Charles' bike seat had been stolen. Ack! I feel vindicated now for being paranoid and taking my bike seat with me whenever I leave it outside. Luckily, the Millennium Park bike station was still open, and the mechanic was miraculously able to find a fitting seat and post for his bike. This was the same guy who patched up my bike after I got hit by a cab; have I mentioned lately how much he rocks??

Meanwhile, the Mass was in full swing and heading north. And by "full swing," I mean traveling at about 5 mph - thousands of bikers don't make it anywhere particularly fast. Plus, we were surrounded by all kinds of sideshows. There was a marching band, people passing out organic sodas, skinny hipsters toting patched messenger bags, suburban lawyer types in spandex, parents with wagons of small children, bikes with subwoofers attached, short trick bikes, 5' tall 2-tiered bikes, and that guy you always see on Lake Shore drive with the "Hi :)" flag on his bike.


The Mass wended its way through downtown and headed toward Wicker and then Humboldt Parks, alternatively pissing off cab drivers (who were prevented from driving forward by cyclists who "corked" intersections) and bringing good cheer to kids who ran out to shout "Happy Friday!" (the unofficial Critical Mass greeting). I was surrounded by bikes on all sides, there were no dump trucks bearing down on me and no cars opening doors in my path, and for the first time ever, I felt completely safe while biking in the city. By the end of the night, I was definitely feeling One with the Mass or the Universe or whatever.

We made a quick pit stop at Charles' apartment to pick up beer (appropriately enough, he had large quantities of PBR). I have now perfected my technique for opening a can of beer with one hand while riding a bike.

That was without a doubt the funnest thing I've done all month.

There are rumors flying that this 10th anniversary Critical Mass might be the last one ever in the city, since some feel that the ride has become too large for its own good, and more closely resembles a frat party, rather than focusing on cycling advocacy. Personally, I think the Mass will keep assembling so long as there are cyclists who keep showing up once a month at Daley Plaza. (see proponents of the "Last Mass My Ass!" campaign) I didn't stick it out till the end of the ride (we had plans to meet up with people), but if you stay till the end, I hear the horde eventually ends up at say, the North Ave beach and then breaks up into lots of crazy after-parties. Yay, biking community culture!

intj

I think too much and I don't take enough risks. I ponder this and I am troubled.

Bells Reunion, Chicago-style

Viki dropped into town last weekend, and since we both tend to have short attention spans for anything not involving food, I quickly drew up a list of 9 potential restaurants to hit up. We didn't get to all of them of course, but there's always next year...After nabbing her at the Damen El stop, we swung by La Pasadita (one of the three on that block) for $1.85 steak tacos and drumline gossip. It was a good primer for Homecoming weekend in three weeks.

The next day, I wanted to show off all the best (non-touristy) parts of Chicago, which obviously meant going back to Wicker Park. For the unfamiliar, the Wicker Park neighborhood is filled with all kinds of uber trendy shops and bars, and might be infested with hipsters who are more pretentious than you. (See definition #4 of "hipster" in Urban Dictionary.) No matter, even though I try to aspire towards hippie-dom, this is still my favorite part of town. We wandered through Mojo Spa and checked out their birthday cake soap (which looks and smells like vanilla cake), strolled through an artsy furniture store with statues made of rolled-up magazines, and looked at baby clothing. More specifically, there was a Google knock-off shirt that caught my eye, complete with rainbow "Googoo" logo and a search button labeled "I'm feeling silly." Just think, with that outfit, the kid is practically guaranteed to be spouting off Star Wars quotes! For the first time ever, all my maternal instincts were rising to the surface. Finally, I am in love with the Bongo Room, which had a ridiculously good brunch menu. It was one of those rare places where I wanted to try everything on the menu: lump crab eggs benedict, strawberry & mango french toast, chipotle black bean breakfast burrito...yum!

We met up with Matt & Co. for the rest of the afternoon and did the usual tour of Millenium Park and walked down the Magnificient Mile. To be honest, the Mag Mile, filled with lots of designer stores, interests me about as much as watching paint dry. Hence, Viki and I decided to take a detour to Trader Joe's, which was also conveniently giving out bruschetta samples. Then we rejoined the rest of the crew for dinner at a tapas place. I'd been there just 2 weeks before for Alex's birthday dinner, but I figured I had a rare opportunity to take 10 people to dinner, so tapas would be appropriate. Tip: when you're done drinking the sangria, try eating the leftover fruit. Rob started doing this as a joke, but it's actually surprisingly good (so long as you don't eat the orange peel).

While at dinner, I was kind of struck by the number of serious couples surrounding me. I guess I'm not used to being completely outnumbered by couples, plus George and Kerry had recently gotten engaged so that was big news. And I'd just heard that Kelly had gotten engaged. Also, while walking around the parks downtown, we ran into at least 3 wedding parties. And just a few nights before, Jen and I were discussing the price of engagement rings at dinner (general rule of thumb: spend 1-2 mos salary).

Maybe I should join that facebook group. The one titled "All my friends are getting married, and I'm just getting drunk." :p

Green House

Some people save up for that BMW convertible. Others splurge on designer clothing...well, I can't wait to completely redesign my kitchen. It'll be ridiculously pimped out, wait and see. I've got my heart set on hanging pots, a stand-alone freezer and magnetic strips for knives, for starters. Then, let's throw in lots of extravagantly cute Alessi products, like their classic bird teapot or this coffeemaker. And I'll finally have space for all those impractical one-use-only kitchen appliances and gadgets. Paella pan, juicer, ice cream maker, egg slicer, creme brulee torch...this is starting to read like my Christmas list.



Viki visited Chicago over the weekend, and had read a magazine article about a new "Fit House" that was recently built in Lincoln Park. Basically, this is part of a series of eco-friendly homes that have been constructed around the country with the help of corporate sponsors, and the Chicago Fit House is the sixth home built. It features local construction materials, triple paned windows, and rooftop gardens. Unfortunately, the house closed for public tours on Sept 2, otherwise we would have gone to check it out. Although, now it's for sale on the market, so I suppose we could call up the agent and pretend to be interested in buying a 4-story, 5400 sq ft home.

Anyway, here's a shot of the kitchen. I am in love with the chalkboard walls. You can post recipes and shopping lists on your walls, or write notes to other people in the family. How awesome is that?



For all the talk of building a green house though, I do think this home is too ostentatious (read: big) for a single-family home. 5,400 sq feet? That is a megaton of space, and it just reeks of American consumerist excess. And the sauna and temperature-controlled wine cellar can't possibly be energy efficient. Don't get me wrong, the house is very nice and I'd love to live there, but it's still a long way from what I'd consider truly green construction practices.

Fairytale Ending plus omgnails

I had a kick-ass Fri night because I:
a) cooked
b) cleaned
c) watched a few episodes of Arrested Development
d) got into a fight with Joe via text message

To explain the last point, last weekend went something like this:
Joe: There's a wine tasting in the park, want to go?
Me: Oh, when/where/how?
Joe: (fills in details) It's expensive but it might be fun to do another picnic in the park. Or we could just do another movie night and cuddle?
Me: Um, actually, I'm going to Wisconsin this weekend. Catch you later?

Next, I will preface by saying I went out all week and really did have my heart set on cooking/cleaning Fri night. So this weekend went something like this:
Joe: There's a really great jazz pianist in town from France at Green Mill Fri/Sat night, interested in going?
Me: Hey, I know this is going to sound really lame, but I was planning on cleaning and stuff tonight, and I have plans on Sat/Sun..

Hmm. Does it sound like I'm blowing him off for a 2nd weekend in a row? Maybe because I am blowing him off for a second weekend in a row?? I'm just so damn lazy, I don't feel like making the effort to hang out every weekend. How do you tell someone they've been downgraded to an acquaintance? At any rate, the response was:

Joe: Who said anything about Sunday??

My reading of this was that he was pissed. Although Matt suggested that maybe he was implying that I was implying a Sat night hangout would extend into an awkward Sun morning breakfast. Uh no. I thought about not responding to this, then Warren convinced me that would be awkward and I shouldn't leave things like that. So, I debated texting "Well, want to do something Mon night?" or better yet, to answer the question:

Me: I did haha.

No response so far!

Well, I hadn't quite expected things to end like that, but it's resolution to something that's been weighing on my mind, so I'm happy even if Kelly insists "you can't text message brake up" (sic).

Anyway, the rest of the weekend was full of similarly awesome firsts, including my first game of flipcup (apparently it's all in bouncing the knees) and my first mani/pedi. Basically, the Fed females decided to get nails done as an ensemble, so we trekked to a nail place and spent an hour inhaling chemical fumes and watching dead skin get sloughed off our feet. Hot! I don't think I'd ever pay to get a mani/pedi on my own (actually, I made Katherine pay yesterday because she owes me money), but it was a fun group experience. Color-wise, I thought about some shade of siren red then decided that me being in a nail salon was enough effort on my part, and settled with light blue fingernails and seafoam green toenails. Also, we've determined that I have unusually large pinky toes (my "jew-toe," if you will). (Everyone else's toes sort of shrink dramatically in size while mine are reasonable and stay sort of the same length.) Check it out:

WILCO

I had a hot date with Haley tonight at the Wilco concert in Millennium Park. Well, originally she'd invited some other people and her roommate along, but through a series of unfortunate events, it ended up being me and her hanging out for the bulk of the night. Maybe for the best, actually.

The concert was one of the best shows I've ever seen, with a ridiculous set that spanned the entire Wilco catalogue. Admittedly, I am mostly familiar with just one of their albums, but it's a sign of a good concert when you can enjoy the unfamiliar material. My neck is sore from extreme head-banging.

The usual slew of highly special concert goers was present. This included the overenthusiastic constantly screaming Wilco t-shirted girl, the dancing machine, and the avid air keyboardist. (If you've ever seen the World Air Guitar Championship, you'll know that this is serious business.) Lots of smoke filled the air, people took multiple pictures of their palms, and bottles of mouthwash with suspiciously clear contents were passed around.

Tonight also marked the start of Rosh Hashanah, and Jeff Tweedy took ample jabs at the "non-observant" Jews in the crowd. "So, for all the Jews out there, why are you here? Don't worry, this is like being at temple, really...Well, you just listened to a song called 'Jesus, Etc.' But don't feel guilty, just remember that Jesus is also an interjection, as they say in Schoolhouse Rock!"

I hadn't realized that Wilco was a Chicago-based band, but as it turns out, Tweedy still lives in town and they even have a song titled "Via Chicago." The open-air lawn at Priztker turned out to be a great setting, with the skyline in the background as the sun set.

The (first) encore ended with a phenomenal rendition of "Spiders," which is about 10 minutes of pure jamming. At the end, the audience started clapping along, with Jeff's encouragement. "Come on, it's ok to clap, you're only at a rock concert. For once, you're going to do something as part of a group, something together. Not as two, or four, as one..." And as the band faded out, the sound of clapping echoed through the air.

Roadtrip!

Friday afternoon and I was yawning lazily when Haley and Britton sauntered into my cube and announced they'd been thinking about taking a road trip to Wisconsin. Sounds fun, I said, when were you planning on going? The response was, ohh…how about, tomorrow?? Well heck, I figured this most accurately reflects the spontaneous, poorly-planned nature of road trips, canceled the rest of my plans for the weekend and started looking up directions.

What I learned in Madison:
-People are really, really nice in the Midwest. Not that Chicago is a particularly unfriendly city, but in the parking lot of a state park, an elderly couple walked by us, then turned around and apologized for not saying good morning. Now I'm confused.
-Avoid making superior statements such as "You'd really have to be a moron with a capital M to fall into the water." when you are about to go kayaking because it inevitably means you will fall into the water. And as we found out, it's extremely difficult to climb into a water-logged kayak, and even more painful/embarrassing to swim back to shore sans boat.
-Wine tours are more fun when you're not the DD. Also, our tour guide sounded exactly like a flight attendant in tone. It was so distracting, I don't remember anything else she said.
-The mosquitoes mean business. After a valiant attempt at picnicking in the park (near water), we decided to have a cozy picnic...back at our lovely insect-free Econolodge room.
-I was a lot better at picking up the rules for spades (which actually involves strategy) than for kings or the other drinking games (which do not). Perhaps this was because I started drinking during the latter.
-Hiking in the Midwest involves walking through prairie. And a few forested sections and minor hills, but mostly a lot of flat prairie. "Don't worry, you won't get lost," we were told, "You can see the entire trail from here anyway." All right, note to self, next time we attempt hiking and kayaking, we're going some place with elevation changes.
-I lost my Cracker Barrel virginity, and although I was kind of disappointed in my food, the kitschy general store littered with Yankee Candle products, lemon heads and Halloween costumes more than made up for the bland food quality. If only I could bring a rocking chair home with me.

Driving back to Chicago was rather depressing. On the plus side, we could easily go on another road trip pretty much any weekend we want. Let's hear it for living in the real world!

Bitten by the Biking Bug

So, I've been on the watch for a new bike for a while, but became really motivated to look for a new one when both Katherine and Joe picked up new bikes last week and my current bike got a flat. Don't get me wrong, my bike is a perfect commuting bike in many ways, a solid vintage English 3-speed which came equipped with fenders, a chainguard and a rack. (All of these features are rare in contemporary bikes.) However, it's a bit of a heavy clunker and the brakes are questionable at best after rain. Last time I went into the bike shop, someone commented that the bike could very well be put on display as an antique. And okay, buying two bikes in two months? I'll admit that I have a not-so-minor case of cycling fever.

After a decent amount of research, I decided I was limiting myself to spending no more than $250 (I could have easily blown $1000 on an entry-level road bike), which meant I wasn't buying a new bike. My second problem was trying to figure out proper bike sizing (frame size? standover height? top tube length?), made all the more tricky since European bikes use metric measurements and American bikes do not. Then I took a crash course in bike mechanics to try to understand the differences in component quality. Rim or disc brakes? Front or all suspension? Steel or aluminum frame? How the hell do they build bikes that weigh in at 21 lbs?? Christ, that's lighter than my bag of rice at home.

Luckily, after scouting Craig's list for a couple days, one listing caught my eye, a 21-speed Giant Yukon hybrid (all-terrain) bike with a smaller 17" frame. When I called about the bike, the owner seemed a little distracted ("Which bike?"), and asked me to describe the bike extensively before saying "Oh yeah, it's available." So, I showed up tonight at the address given, and ran into another girl who was looking at a single-speed. The guy went down into the basement to retrieve our bikes. Meanwhile, the other girl commented nervously, "I really hope this guy isn't dealing stolen bikes...but uh, the price is definitely right." It hadn't even occurred to me that the guy could be dealing stolen goods, but when I asked him why he was selling the bikes, he said he was a dealer and every summer he fixed up bikes and resold them as a hobby. Shrug, it seems plausible enough? Besides, when I hopped on the bike, it was pure bliss. Light as a feather, silk-smooth shifting, and a beautiful dark green finish. Stolen good potential be damned, one quick spin around the block later, I was completely sold. Forget buying a new car, buying a new bike makes me super happy. Besides, according to the other girl, it's really hard to retrieve stolen bikes unless the owner happens to look at it and knows it's theirs. Oh well!?

Google Trends

I took a break from fighting the unix server this afternoon when Katherine pointed me to Google Trends. Basically, it calculates the number of searches and news citations over time (from 2004) for a keyword or phrase. You can compare the popularity of multiple phrases, and see geographically where they are most popular. Without further ado, here is what I learned from Google Trends:

1. Enchiladas are popular in the US, Mexico...and most of all, Stuttgart, Germany. Anyone have any idea why?


2. Digg has gradually overtaken Slashdot in popularity, and is now even topping the venerable Wall Street Journal.


3. Speaking of internet phenomenon, you can chart the meteoric rise of memes:


4. Google might be bigger than God:


5. But truly surprising, Google might be bigger than sex:

The Great Wall

My mom and uncle just got back from a month-long trip to China. As my mom excitedly told us, they pass out certificates as proof that you expended the effort to climb to the top of the Great Wall. I should ask her what was tougher, the Great Wall or the 161 steps of McGraw Tower.

Among the other things she peppered me with (did you call about wisdom teeth? why didn't you talk to your brother more?!), she mentioned that she felt like she didn't know enough Chinese. (Oy veh, I thought, what does that mean for me?) Mostly, this referred to lack of cultural knowledge. Apparently in Anhui, there is a sophisticated traditional table setting that neatly combines table objects and directional elements that result in a clever wordplay, imparting "lifelong peace and serenity." She also rambled on about some other ancient Chinese texts and customs (leaving a hat at the entrance to indicate the presence of the host), but it was midnight and I was tuning out.

My parents were born and raised in Vietnam, and this was probably my mom's third or so trip to China. That means heritage-wise, we're sort of an unconventional amalgam of SE Asian (probably half the stuff my mom cooks has Viet roots) and Chinese (which is hard to define since the country is ginormous). So where does that leave me, oh hapless chimera of American-Born Chinese Twinkie?

It leaves me wishing I'd had time to take more Chinese at Cornell (probably the best academic decision I made at college), but now that I'm out of undergrad and not working abroad in the foreseeable future, realistically it's not so much an option. Funny how the certificate I got threw up as many hidden barriers as it opened doors.

The Inside Scoop

Jen and I traipsed to Ravinia last night for a Rufus Wainwright concert, and he did not disappoint. Compared to his last performance at Cornell, he was much more flamboyantly gay, which may have explained why he strutted onto the stage wearing lederhosen ("I know, these pants are really tight and kind of uncomfortable...don't ask"), subsequently shimmied into a bathrobe, and at the end, was wearing a rather short skirt (or a long jacket). The rest of the audience also seemed heavily populated by gay and lesbian couples. To top it off, the encore included a Broadway-style dance routine with the rest of the band. Er, scratch that, full orchestra. After all, Rufus travels with the usual accompaniment: percussion, guitar, back-up vocalists, strings, sax, trumpet, french horn, flute...it's lush, it's dramatic, it's popera at its best.

Unfortunately, the concert was somewhat marred by the preceding day's thunderstorms. "Extremely Wet Grounds" announced the signs at the entrance. (If I were still at college, I would have tried stealing one for apartment-decoration purposes.) Or, maybe we were simply being newbies, because we'd forgotten to pack a waterproof dining room set with us. Looking around the lawn, I suddenly realized I'd left at home my plastic tarp, golf chairs, table, china and citronella candles. No matter, I remembered to bring my wine.

In contrast, I grabbed dinner at a Thai place with Joseph tonight, and my jaw nearly dropped when the waitress handed us menus, and then he asked for the secret Thai menu. I mean, those exist?? The food was phenomenal too, reasonably priced and authentic, meaning I would take my parents there. Woot!

The Market is Gyrating

At the risk of losing my veneer of coolness and respectability, I am going to confess: the subprime mortgage tumult in global financial markets makes me really excited.

I know, this is barely on the radar for most people unless you are working on Wall Street, or have been trying to obtain a mortgage. But this is a market crisis on the order of the 97-98 Asian financial crisis, and I'm in a prime (ha!) position to analyze and perhaps even influence what is going on.

In essence, subprime mortgages are those given to borrowers with less than perfect credit. The practice began in 2005 or so, when mortgage brokers began offering adjustable rate mortgages, with low interest rates and payments for the first 2 years, and an adjusted (higher) rate afterwards. Now it is 2007, and in a lovely surprise, families are suddenly finding themselves unable to pay their mortgages.

Just 2 weeks ago, Fed Chairman Bernanke released a statement suggesting the credit woes would not impact the wider economy, and that the market was going through a necessary self-correction. The global markets continued to slide, as lenders and securities tied to subprime mortgages murmured about bankruptcy and default. Ten days later, the Fed reversed course, and in an unusual move, cut the discount rate at which banks loan money to each other. It's becoming clear that a few risky mortgages are coming to impact financial sectors in unforeseen ways.

Today, I was doing research on asset-backed commercial paper, which is normally the most mundane security instrument out there, relatively risk-free. Until credit tightens and liquidity dries up, that is. In recent weeks, the yields on CP have risen overnight to 6-year highs. Here's an introduction to what commercial paper is exactly:

A: Can I borrow $10 till tomorrow?
B: Sure.
A: I'm good for it, you know.
B: But you're not earning any money tomorrow, how will you pay me back?
A: Oh, there's lots of liquidity at the short end of the yield curve.
B: In English, please?
A: You're going to lend it to me.
B: Lend what to you?
A: The $10 I need to pay you back.
B: Ah.

In other words, this is the kind of scheme that will work until it doesn't. CP is safe because investments mature quickly (say, tomorrow), but issuers must be able to roll over debt by borrowing what they owe. Thus, CP yields have increased to premium levels in order to attract skittish buyers.

I did some work and gave my results to Rich, who will be talking to Chicago Fed president Moscow tomorrow morning, who will be giving Bernanke an earful at the next FOMC meeting. So there, I like to think I've done my part to contribute to history.

"Ithaca Joe"

He grew up on a Vermont dairy farm, spent senior year of high school at the Walden Project, and is an avid hiker/mountain biker/rock climber.

He’s a drummer, has an encyclopedic knowledge of every jazz show going on around town, and burned about 1,500 jazz albums from the Middlebury library back in high school.

He appreciates food and takes pride in cooking. Sauce from scratch? I haven’t even gotten around to doing that. Yesterday, he picked up saffron. (This stuff is crazy expensive, one time Scott and I tried to calculate if saffron powder was more expensive than cocaine.) He also knows the ins and outs of all the hole-in-the-wall ethnic restaurants around town. “There’s this amazing Yucatan/Mayan place at 5400 west…ok, it’s an extra 8 miles out of your way, but you can bike there easily…”

He’s well-read, recognized my Strand bag, and didn’t recognize Lost or 24.

He also has no college degree, and has a “gig” at a bike taxi place that will last until the end of the summer. After that, he might take a trip to the Grand Canyon (one of his friends works the white-water rafting down there), or S. America (another friend is planning a 3-month trip to Chile). You know, whichever way the wind blows; he’s a free spirit.

I don’t know what’s going on.

We’re making dinner on Sunday.

By popular demand

Last Friday, the Feddies decided to take a trip to Ravinia to see Fiona Apple & Nickel Creek in concert. I had actually heard both of them beforehand, and had even seen Fiona in concert before. (Muchos gracias to MF & the Splashers for dragging me to Jones Beach last summer.) This time, I was a seasoned veteran, meaning Ana and I were the obnoxious ones singing along to the music while everyone else ignored us. The two bands also played together, and Fiona Apple backed by a bluegrass & strings band was surprisingly effective.

Music aside though, the Ravinia lawn is quite a time even if you are clueless about the artist. Similar to the Tanglewood lawn, people bring in booze and picnic baskets and set up shop all over the grass. We brought in lots of bread, cheese and dip (I made pesto the night before), 3 bottles of wine and a lot of beer. Pretty tame, really, as Luis was saying last time, there had been 2 more bottles of wine than there were people. By the end of the night, everyone was pleasantly festive (or maybe somewhat belligerent).

I’ll be back next weekend for Rufus Wainwright. The Rufus/Guster concert at Cornell a few years ago ranks as one of my favorite shows of all time, so hopefully this will live up to that.

Afterwards, we somehow landed at a U of Chicago house party. It was actually pretty happenin’, as in not where fun goes to die. So happening, that by the end of the night, Britton and I landed the unruly task of walking a not-walking Haley home. Have you ever been cab-rejected before?? I hailed two cabs and they slowed to pick us up, then drove off when they saw Haley and thought she was going to be sick. Finally, the third cab I hailed took pity on us and we managed to get her home. Thank god Britton was there to take charge, because I wouldn’t have known what to do, having never really dealt with drunk people before…Britton: “Well, I’d say welcome to college, but you’re already out, so…” Oh 209, we only got good at being college during the month of May. :p

I spent the next morning grabbing dimsum and wandering around the loop with Alex, who was visiting from Missouri (where?). Whoa, Cornell people, in the flesh! It all seems so far removed from where I am and what I’m doing now. And tomorrow is the first day of freshman orientation, and Sunday will be First Night and drumline won’t be at my apt this year…all right, I’ll stop tearing up. Especially since now I know where to find 2-liter beers in glass boots. That's right, we ended up in the German Square of Lincoln Park at the Chicago Brauhaus. Apparently it is humanly possible, though not enjoyable, to down an entire boot in 7 min (not that I tried).

For good measure, I popped into the Organization for Chinese Americans (OCA) picnic on Sun afternoon. There wasn’t clear signage, so I wandered around the back of the house in question to see a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth. Aha, I thought, I have officially arrived. The next test was how much Mandarin I could spit out/comprehend. Sigh, 2 semesters of Chinese later, I still have a ways to go. One of the girls I met was gently correcting my accent. (ouch!) It’s ok, I forgive her, and we’re going salsa dancing this weekend. One of the other interesting people I met was an elderly lady with perfect, unaccented English. As I ogled, someone explained that she was actually born in the US, and her grandparents had immigrated in the late 1800s. Wow, they probably passed through Angel Island or participated in the original gold rush! For all the first generation asian immigrants in this country, I forget that there are 5th generation families as well.