Although I live in Chinatown, for the most part, I am pretty removed from the neighborhood's activity. I work in the Loop, shop on Roosevelt, and play in Wrigleyville. Aside from the occasional foray to buy soy milk, I could go weeks without stepping foot on Cermak. This morning, in a moment of extreme naivete, I decided to swing by the Chinatown post office. I needed to mail a package, and didn't feel like waiting until Monday to go to a post office downtown. When I arrived, the line was almost out the door, as one postal clerk worked the counter. (45) minutes began to tick by.
It soon became apparent why the line was moving so slowly. A combination of language barriers and bureaucratic hurdles meant that even simple tasks, like buying stamps, were long and arduous. I watched as a woman bought 20 stamps, then explained that she actually wanted a second sheet of 20 stamps. To give credit to the post office worker, she was being exceedingly patient with each customer, taking time to explain the details as the line continued to grow.
USPS accepts passport applications, and you can imagine a fair number of immigrants are hoping to apply for passports, so they can visit their families abroad and whatnot. It's kind of ironic that non-English speakers are forced to disentangle bureaucratic hoops (passports, citizenship applications) more often than native Americans. A family presented their paperwork at the counter, and the clerk tried to explain what kinds of IDs were acceptable, and what the emergency contact information was for. "You can't put yourself down for the emergency contact," she chided, "aren't you going to be traveling with the kids?" The mother nodded yes. "Well then, you need to put down someone else. Do you have a sister? Someone outside of the family?" The family huddled together, trying to recall a relative's phone number. The father solemnly raised his hand as the postal clerk read the passport oath aloud.
The next man carried a large box and was followed by a teenage girl who translated for him. "What's in the package?" asked the clerk. "Books? What kinds of books? I need to open the box and take a look, ok?" She unsealed the carton and pulled out several books. "What are these about?" she asked. The girl replied, "Ah, this is a recipe book. And that one is about making money." The clerk consulted a sheet with restrictions listed. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you can't mail that book about making money. It's 'printed matter,' and they don't allow printed matter with political or economic content into China." She continued rummaging through the box, and pulled out some clothing. "Is this used clothing? You can't send that either. This pair of jeans is fine because it still has the tags on it." The girl hastily said that the other shirts were new as well. "It doesn't have the tags on it though, do you still have the tags? Otherwise it's used, and you can't send it. These are Chinese government restrictions." In the end, they left the post office with the package unmailed.
Curious, I looked up what exactly is banned for mail shipment to China. Among the usual restrictions against radioactive materials and arms, China bans the mailing of media "which could do political, economical, cultural, or moral harm to the People’s Republic of China," along with a number of seemingly innocuous consumer goods, like wristwatches and cameras. Moreover, the value of each shipment cannot exceed 100 RMB, which at a conversion rate of about 8 yuan to $1, comes to around $12.50. So much for mailing that camera.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Just your average Fed party...
Chris threw a sake (bombing) party Sat night, and I ventured out for it, even though it was something like -3 degrees outside with 15-20 mph winds. Why? 3 words: Phil was coming.
Phil works at the Fed, and might be one of my all-time favorite people. At the very least, he tops the list of people I'd consider "characters." He's pretty dorky, plays a lot of WoW, and says things like "My new year's resolution is 1024 x 768."
Alas, Phil is 26ish, married, and lives in the suburbs, so it's a hard sell to get him to come party with the rest of us. (His penchant for Warcraft usually ensures that he doesn't leave the house all weekend.) So, his presence at this party was a bit of a watershed event. Plus, we were all morbidly curious about what Amber (his wife) was like.
The man did not disappoint. Even before showing up, he called Chris, and demanded to know where the nearest Taco Bell was. Apparently, Amber was insisting on getting food, since they'd spent all day playing WoW.
A few shots of warm sake later, somehow Chris and Phil decided to have a gay-off. The contest was over who had the gayest song on their ipod, and each person had 3 picks. Chris started off with some generic riverdance-esque music, which was gay but nothing particularly flaming. Phil responded with "Sweet Transvestite" from Rocky Horror. He knew all the lyrics. There was hip thrusting. I almost peed in my pants.
Chris then ups the ante with N Sync. He doesn't quite know all the words, but that's ok because Alex does, and they perform an loosely choreographed routine that would bring tears to your eyes (for better or worse). Phil replies with another girly favorite: "My Heart Will Go On." He doesn't know the words either, but I am shocked that this is even on his ipod. Chris - 1, Phil - 1.
For the last round, Phil goes first, and reminds us that the contest was originally over who had the gayest song, not necessarily the gayest performance. With that in mind, he plays Fred Schneider's (of the B-52's) "Monster (in my Pants)" I'd never heard this song before, but suffice it to say, the lyrics are highly special. Finally, Chris pulls out a song "in honor of his nickname," ABBA's "Dancing Queen." I'm laughing so hard that my face hurts.
At this point, Phil brings out the song I thought should have been his trump card all along: Electric Six's "Gay Bar." Really, you can't get more gay than that. We decide it might be a draw between the two of them.
Phil: "Come on, when I saw that Chris had all 5 seasons of 'Queer as Folk' on DVD, I knew that I was finished."
Phil works at the Fed, and might be one of my all-time favorite people. At the very least, he tops the list of people I'd consider "characters." He's pretty dorky, plays a lot of WoW, and says things like "My new year's resolution is 1024 x 768."
Alas, Phil is 26ish, married, and lives in the suburbs, so it's a hard sell to get him to come party with the rest of us. (His penchant for Warcraft usually ensures that he doesn't leave the house all weekend.) So, his presence at this party was a bit of a watershed event. Plus, we were all morbidly curious about what Amber (his wife) was like.
The man did not disappoint. Even before showing up, he called Chris, and demanded to know where the nearest Taco Bell was. Apparently, Amber was insisting on getting food, since they'd spent all day playing WoW.
A few shots of warm sake later, somehow Chris and Phil decided to have a gay-off. The contest was over who had the gayest song on their ipod, and each person had 3 picks. Chris started off with some generic riverdance-esque music, which was gay but nothing particularly flaming. Phil responded with "Sweet Transvestite" from Rocky Horror. He knew all the lyrics. There was hip thrusting. I almost peed in my pants.
Chris then ups the ante with N Sync. He doesn't quite know all the words, but that's ok because Alex does, and they perform an loosely choreographed routine that would bring tears to your eyes (for better or worse). Phil replies with another girly favorite: "My Heart Will Go On." He doesn't know the words either, but I am shocked that this is even on his ipod. Chris - 1, Phil - 1.
For the last round, Phil goes first, and reminds us that the contest was originally over who had the gayest song, not necessarily the gayest performance. With that in mind, he plays Fred Schneider's (of the B-52's) "Monster (in my Pants)" I'd never heard this song before, but suffice it to say, the lyrics are highly special. Finally, Chris pulls out a song "in honor of his nickname," ABBA's "Dancing Queen." I'm laughing so hard that my face hurts.
At this point, Phil brings out the song I thought should have been his trump card all along: Electric Six's "Gay Bar." Really, you can't get more gay than that. We decide it might be a draw between the two of them.
Phil: "Come on, when I saw that Chris had all 5 seasons of 'Queer as Folk' on DVD, I knew that I was finished."
Thursday, January 17, 2008
All-Nighter at Club Fed
Since I like to be masochistic, I decided to take a class this quarter on top of working full-time. Well, that wasn't exactly the reason, but I figured I should dip my toes back into coursework to strengthen my transcript for grad school apps. More importantly, after being out of the classroom for 6 months, I need to reassess whether I want to go back for a few more years of fretting about exams, or just stay in the "real" world. Luckily, the Fed offers tuition reimbursement for "related" classes that improve human capital, which loosely covers all kinds of business, economics and math classes. Have I mentioned lately how much my job rocks?
The first class I'd wanted to take was Intro to Stochastic Processes, but Prof Lalley pretty much told me it was geared toward PhD students and that I should take something else. So, I settled on an "Introduction to Probability Models" class at the U of C (University of Chicago, in local parlance), which looked like it'd be manageable. It also covers stochastic processes, but with a less theoretical treatment and more emphasis on applications. And as we all know, applications = easy (relatively). Finally, in my smartest move yet, I was able to convince Katherine to take the class with me, so that I wouldn't be studying and doing problem sets entirely on my own.
The class is cross-listed as a graduate course, so it's filled with masters statistics students and senior math majors. To be honest, I'm more afraid of the senior math majors, many of whom have serious bowl cuts going on. When I first walked into the class, the room was filled with Asians. Oh wait, there were two white people, and they looked Russian. By the end of week one, we were 3 chapters and 200 pages into the book. The problem sets are due on Thursdays, and I spent the weekend reading the book, and did a first pass of the problem set on Mon night. At this point, I started to worry, and told Katherine that we had to work on this problem set Tues night. We stayed at the Fed until 11 pm, and at that point we'd only covered 3 out of the 7 problems...and the questions only get harder as you go on.
Wed night was even better--we spent the entire night at the Fed. That's right, we went to work at 9 in the morning, stayed up all night doing the first problem set of the quarter, went to class the next morning, and then came back for another 8 hours of "real" work. And because it was the week before an FOMC meeting, we were swamped with work. It wasn't pretty.
On the other hand, I've never been more comfortable with probability in my life. We were in an office with a whiteboard wall, which was covered with crazy scribblings and mathematical notation by the end. I felt really happy with our progress. Between the two of us, we were coming up with all sorts of re-indexing methods, recognizing obscure probability distributions, and transforming ugly algebraic messes into compact sums like no other. There's no way I would've been able to come up with all that on my own. And it was really satisfying to know that I could still think and analyze on a higher-order level.
As much fun as that was, I'm hoping that subsequent problem sets lighten up a bit, because I can't afford to pull an all-nighter every week. Back in my undergrad days, I could easily turn in projects and then sleep for the rest of the day, but that's not an option any more now that I have a job. Erg.
The first class I'd wanted to take was Intro to Stochastic Processes, but Prof Lalley pretty much told me it was geared toward PhD students and that I should take something else. So, I settled on an "Introduction to Probability Models" class at the U of C (University of Chicago, in local parlance), which looked like it'd be manageable. It also covers stochastic processes, but with a less theoretical treatment and more emphasis on applications. And as we all know, applications = easy (relatively). Finally, in my smartest move yet, I was able to convince Katherine to take the class with me, so that I wouldn't be studying and doing problem sets entirely on my own.
The class is cross-listed as a graduate course, so it's filled with masters statistics students and senior math majors. To be honest, I'm more afraid of the senior math majors, many of whom have serious bowl cuts going on. When I first walked into the class, the room was filled with Asians. Oh wait, there were two white people, and they looked Russian. By the end of week one, we were 3 chapters and 200 pages into the book. The problem sets are due on Thursdays, and I spent the weekend reading the book, and did a first pass of the problem set on Mon night. At this point, I started to worry, and told Katherine that we had to work on this problem set Tues night. We stayed at the Fed until 11 pm, and at that point we'd only covered 3 out of the 7 problems...and the questions only get harder as you go on.
Wed night was even better--we spent the entire night at the Fed. That's right, we went to work at 9 in the morning, stayed up all night doing the first problem set of the quarter, went to class the next morning, and then came back for another 8 hours of "real" work. And because it was the week before an FOMC meeting, we were swamped with work. It wasn't pretty.
On the other hand, I've never been more comfortable with probability in my life. We were in an office with a whiteboard wall, which was covered with crazy scribblings and mathematical notation by the end. I felt really happy with our progress. Between the two of us, we were coming up with all sorts of re-indexing methods, recognizing obscure probability distributions, and transforming ugly algebraic messes into compact sums like no other. There's no way I would've been able to come up with all that on my own. And it was really satisfying to know that I could still think and analyze on a higher-order level.
As much fun as that was, I'm hoping that subsequent problem sets lighten up a bit, because I can't afford to pull an all-nighter every week. Back in my undergrad days, I could easily turn in projects and then sleep for the rest of the day, but that's not an option any more now that I have a job. Erg.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Rainbo Club
This is an ode to the Rainbo Club (no, that's not a typo), a hipster-infested Wicker Park hole-in-the-wall that will forever hold a place in my judgmental heart. I've only been here a handful of occasions, but those excursions have left indelible impressions on my mind.
The Rainbo Club harkens back to its roots as a speakeasy in the 1920s, and the exterior, with its metal grating, ramshackle neon signage and complete lack of windows, fills you with a sense of foreboding. Are we seriously going in here, you ask. Fear not, the brave will be rewarded with an eclectic scene befitting the bar's reputation as a bohemian hangout.
Greek columns adorn the wall behind the horseshoe-shaped bar, and a deer head is mounted to the right. Beers are plentiful and cheap, and a pint of PBR (the hipster drink of choice) will only set you back $2. The opposite wall is usually covered with artwork from local artists, and I've seen everything from Jackson Pollock-esque splatter paintings to Chicago scenery. A couple months ago, a "Save Terri Schiavo" sign was posted, though it has since disappeared. Tucked around the corner is an old black & white photo booth, and it is widely believed that the cover of Liz Phair's first album was taken in that booth. Also, the last scene in High Fidelity (the proposal scene) was filmed at the Rainbo Club. And the music? Occasionally, you'll hear (overplayed) bands like The Shins, but more often they'll be spinning some kind of alterno-indie that you'll pretend to know.
The crowd, as you can imagine, tends to be adorned with skinny jeans, messenger bags with patches, and glasses with black, rectangular frames. Last night, after cleaning up from the cook-a-thon, we ventured out looking for entertainment, and landed at the Rainbo. The competition for tables was fierce, and we ended up sharing a booth with two random guys. One guy in particular was an unemployed sociology major from Indianapolis, wearing a houndstooth hoodie over a checkered sweater. Jay was fairly entertaining, as he bemoaned his unmarketable college degree and hinted that he'd be game if we wanted to get him a job at the Fed. He actually had a decent grasp of economics, and was speaking intelligently on incentive structure and politics. Too bad he spent most of his time in college learning Japanese (including a year abroad) and now can't find a job that would make use of this, other than waiting tables at sushi places. Oh and, he was a cyclist, which automatically awards him respect in my book.
The Rainbo Club: the only meat market in town where everyone's a vegan. Check it out, don't forget to bring your pretension.
The Rainbo Club harkens back to its roots as a speakeasy in the 1920s, and the exterior, with its metal grating, ramshackle neon signage and complete lack of windows, fills you with a sense of foreboding. Are we seriously going in here, you ask. Fear not, the brave will be rewarded with an eclectic scene befitting the bar's reputation as a bohemian hangout.
Greek columns adorn the wall behind the horseshoe-shaped bar, and a deer head is mounted to the right. Beers are plentiful and cheap, and a pint of PBR (the hipster drink of choice) will only set you back $2. The opposite wall is usually covered with artwork from local artists, and I've seen everything from Jackson Pollock-esque splatter paintings to Chicago scenery. A couple months ago, a "Save Terri Schiavo" sign was posted, though it has since disappeared. Tucked around the corner is an old black & white photo booth, and it is widely believed that the cover of Liz Phair's first album was taken in that booth. Also, the last scene in High Fidelity (the proposal scene) was filmed at the Rainbo Club. And the music? Occasionally, you'll hear (overplayed) bands like The Shins, but more often they'll be spinning some kind of alterno-indie that you'll pretend to know.
The crowd, as you can imagine, tends to be adorned with skinny jeans, messenger bags with patches, and glasses with black, rectangular frames. Last night, after cleaning up from the cook-a-thon, we ventured out looking for entertainment, and landed at the Rainbo. The competition for tables was fierce, and we ended up sharing a booth with two random guys. One guy in particular was an unemployed sociology major from Indianapolis, wearing a houndstooth hoodie over a checkered sweater. Jay was fairly entertaining, as he bemoaned his unmarketable college degree and hinted that he'd be game if we wanted to get him a job at the Fed. He actually had a decent grasp of economics, and was speaking intelligently on incentive structure and politics. Too bad he spent most of his time in college learning Japanese (including a year abroad) and now can't find a job that would make use of this, other than waiting tables at sushi places. Oh and, he was a cyclist, which automatically awards him respect in my book.
The Rainbo Club: the only meat market in town where everyone's a vegan. Check it out, don't forget to bring your pretension.
Cook-A-Thon
Ana decided to host a Cook-a-Thon last night, with each person demonstrating how to make a dish, and then subsequently the dish getting devoured by the rest of us. For ironic purposes, she decided to make it a chick night and only invite girls. That's right, we had a girl-power gathering and belted out Alanis Morissette (including the hidden track at the end - remember that?)...all while in the kitchen, barefoot (but not pregnant).
There was a complete lack of coordination on what dishes to make, but the menu turned out decently balanced anyway. The theme could fairly be called "Things Wrapped Around Other Things." Without further ado, we had:
Less you get too impressed with our formidable cooking skills, I should mention the frequency with which the fire alarm went off. In between baking the brie, the torte, and frying lumpia, we were generating lots of heat and smoke which did not make the alarm happy. Moreover, Vanessa put the fried lumpia on a paper-towel lined plate, and then leaned a little too close to the gas stove. The paper towel caught on fire, and as we doused it in the sink, the lumpia still in the pan began burning too. We kept hitting the fire alarm with a broomstick to turn it off, until it detached from the wall, wires dangling. Oops. Clearly Ana should know better than to invite us over to destroy her place.
As we chilled in the kitchen after dinner and drank the leftover wine, we realized that everyone present lived by themselves, and had the studio apartment. So here's a toast to not having roommates! Don't get me wrong, I loved my housemates from 209, and I'm glad I had that singular college roommate experience sophomore year with MF, but there's something to be said for having your own place.
Simone: "Here's to coming home and being able to take off your pants!"
Me: "Oooh, I do that all the time! Wait, I've been wondering if anyone else does this...do you guys ever pee with the bathroom door open?"
Everyone else: "OMG totally!"
I guess that's more proof that we're generally not as weird as we think we are.
There was a complete lack of coordination on what dishes to make, but the menu turned out decently balanced anyway. The theme could fairly be called "Things Wrapped Around Other Things." Without further ado, we had:
- Prosciutto wrapped dates and herbed goat cheese
- Baked brie wrapped in phyllo dough with apple
- Pork and chive dumplings
- Filipino lumpia, a type of spring roll
- Tortilla espanola, similar to a potato & onion omelet
- French chocolate torte
Less you get too impressed with our formidable cooking skills, I should mention the frequency with which the fire alarm went off. In between baking the brie, the torte, and frying lumpia, we were generating lots of heat and smoke which did not make the alarm happy. Moreover, Vanessa put the fried lumpia on a paper-towel lined plate, and then leaned a little too close to the gas stove. The paper towel caught on fire, and as we doused it in the sink, the lumpia still in the pan began burning too. We kept hitting the fire alarm with a broomstick to turn it off, until it detached from the wall, wires dangling. Oops. Clearly Ana should know better than to invite us over to destroy her place.
As we chilled in the kitchen after dinner and drank the leftover wine, we realized that everyone present lived by themselves, and had the studio apartment. So here's a toast to not having roommates! Don't get me wrong, I loved my housemates from 209, and I'm glad I had that singular college roommate experience sophomore year with MF, but there's something to be said for having your own place.
Simone: "Here's to coming home and being able to take off your pants!"
Me: "Oooh, I do that all the time! Wait, I've been wondering if anyone else does this...do you guys ever pee with the bathroom door open?"
Everyone else: "OMG totally!"
I guess that's more proof that we're generally not as weird as we think we are.
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