Critical Mass, June

Now that warm weather is here, what could be better than a long bike ride with hundreds of other people? It's been about 6 months since my last one, so I decided it was time to hit up Critical Mass, particularly since this would be Ana's last chance to attend a Mass before she moves to Berkeley. So, after work, we grabbed our backpacks and helmets, and Katherine grabbed a Rhode Island flag and hat.

Katherine: Look, I even brought a costume this time! I'm Rhode Island!
Everyone else: Wait, what? Why did you bring a costume?
Katherine: Aren't we supposed to have costumes? Oh wait, last time we went in October, and it was Halloween...

At least she didn't look out of place with the flag-cape. The Mass always attracts plenty of sideshow-like acts, and this ride was no exception. There were small children, Bush protesters, acoustic guitarists singing about Carl Sandburg, people in underwear, and "Less gas, more beer" signs. We roughly followed this route, which took us through lots of parts of the South Side I'd never seen before, past a building that smelled like a muffin factory (yum!) and another building that smelled like manure (gag). At one point, the Mass wound its way to Ashland and 31st, and I wasn't sure why we were all stopping, until I realized someone had lit a colored smoke bomb. After much cheering, angry honking and many Chicago hold-ups, we continued on our way, and ended the ride 3 hours later at the 31st Street beach.

That was the good part of the ride. The not-so-good part of the ride came when the cops started breaking up the Mass and arresting people with beers. Granted, this is obviously an open container violation, but this was the first time I'd felt a hostile police presence at a ride. (Usually the cops help us cork intersections.) As I watched in horror, a cop yanked a beer out of one guy's hand and threw it on the ground, then shoved him in the back of a squad car. He threw the guy's bike into the trunk and then roughly slammed the trunk. It didn't shut, and the crowd collectively groaned. A voice shouted, "Let my people go!"

We forged on. At a subsequent intersection, a crowd had gathered menacingly around a car with the crumpled remains of a bike frame underneath. I'd seen the cyclist earlier, toting a small dog in a basket. "You killed my dog!" he yelled at the driver. She leaned out the window and pointed angrily, "Well, that guy put his bike on my car!" "She won't get away with this!" the others shouted, "Take pictures of her license plate!" The crowd jeered, and cell phone cameras dutifully began clicking. We decided to stop rubbernecking and move on before some sort of vigilante bike mafia action took place.

At this point, we realized that the crowd had thinned substantially, and we couldn't see anyone ahead of us. Oy! Luckily, there were spotters posted at intersections directing people where to go next. We paused at a light to regroup. "Mass up, mass up!" went the exhortations. "Cars are starting to cut us off, mass up and stick together!" How do you keep a band of bikers together if they don't know where they're going and there's no official leadership? Somehow, people emerge from the woodwork to direct traffic and block intersections. Like self-correcting RNA transcripts, the Mass is surprisingly resilient to failure.

This being my third Critical Mass, and one fraught with tension from non-bikers, I gave some thought as to why we mass, and what statement is being projected. I've spoken to other cyclists who say they don't support the rides and see it as a gratuitous display and disruption of traffic. We could debate till sunrise about whether the publicity and education generated by the rides outweighs the ire raised in drivers and the occasional arrest; I don't think you can say definitively whose side is in the right. However, in a post over the CCM listserv, Adam Kessel raises a very good point to the critics:

The main difference that CM makes, I believe, is in the time between rides, when otherwise depoliticized cyclists start to take action; to write letters to their representatives and city councillors; to argue with their neighbors, families, and friends; to become increasingly aware of the primary role that the private automobile plays in determining foreign and domestic policy, in separating out rich from poor and black from white, in causing more deaths, injuries, and illnesses than all of the leading 'public health' villains.

Critical Mass promotes a vision where cycling is mainstream, an alternative option to our car-centric culture, a place where fear is eliminated and bikers feel safe to ride in traffic, as traffic. For a brief, ephemeral afternoon, we ride in an imaginary cocoon, united with strangers. And then I leave, alone but mobilized with a message. Looking back at the number of people I've convinced to start biking, I think I'm doing pretty good.

On Deutsch

German gets a bad rap for being an ugly language, particularly when compared to the refined sound of French or the romanticism of Italian. Over the years though, I've found that German is quite adept at describing concepts with words that have no English-language equivalent. I suppose this can be true of every language, but I've come across neat words with greatest frequency in German. Anyway, I threw together a compilation of some of my favorites. Many of these have become loanwords in English, and I encourage you to put the others in mainstream use.

• Schadenfreude: As the Avenue Q song puts it, this is happiness at the misfortune of others. ("Straight-A students getting B's, exes getting STDs!")
  
• Zeitgeist: the spirit of the age, used to describe cultural attitudes and moods
  
• Gestalt: the unified whole, something more than the summation of its parts
  
• Funktionlust: the pleasure taken from doing what one does best, loving your drive
  
• Lebenskünstler: "life-artist," or someone who has mastered the art of living, generally through unorthodox means, eschewing the usual rules to make ends meet and happy with their line of work
  
• Ohrwurm: when a song gets stuck in your head
  
• Ansatz: a trial solution that is later verified by its results, oft used in physics and mathematics
  

Academia

Leland's last day at the Fed was Friday afternoon, and as the economists are wont to doing, an email was sent out to the department inviting everyone to go to Ceres for happy hour.

Despite Erik and Ryan trying to sway me, I'd already made up my mind that I wanted to go home. To be honest, I was never particularly close to Leland, and I'm not sure if any of the AEs could claim close bonds. But we do all have a healthy amount of respect, for his astounding work ethic and passion for economics. The ongoing joke is that the macro team's output is going to halve in the aftermath of Leland's departure. Moreover, Leland certainly has ample amounts of support and kinship from the macroeconomists.

Then Sumit (Chris' economist) came by, and asked why we were still dawdling, and why we weren't at Ceres. We made noises about not knowing anyone on the macro team, whereupon Sumit announced, "Well, that's ok. We're going to this thing and we're having a drink. Grab your bags, we're leaving." I gave Chris a stunned look and hastily grabbed my belongings. How could you not acquiesce? It was about as good as drinking with your profs.

Much to my surprise, a healthy crowd had gathered already, including Jeff and Francois from the macro team, Charlie Evans, the Chicago Fed president, and a handful of other AEs. I ordered a Blue Moon and sat back as they regaled us with Tales of Academia. Aside from Leland, who was leaving for grad school at Maryland, Ana was also there, and she'll be leaving for grad school at Berkeley. What advice then, would you give to an aspiring economist? Doesn't it seem like it's getting harder and harder every year to break into the field? Aren't all the good ideas already taken?

Jeff suggested looking for papers in third-rate journals from first-rate academics; it's an indication that they wrestled with a challenging idea and failed, so perhaps you can take a fresh look and solve the problem. He also suggested keeping up Fed ties, by say, working at the San Francisco Fed. This would also conveniently provide a place for you to escape when you need to write your dissertation.

Charlie gave some thoughts on giving presentations. Unfortunately, the first seminars you give are often your most important ones: job market seminars. If you skimp on background information, someone will say they don't understand the motivation behind this paper. If you give an elaborate literature review, others will invariably say they're only interested in seeing your regressions. How do you reconcile the contradictory opinions? It's practically impossible to strike a perfect balance; the best thing you can do is simply know your audience. Sumit: "Yeah Jeff, remember when I gave a seminar and you said you didn't like the title? I wasn't even past slide one!"

Sumit is a special case of an economist who was in the private sector and then left for a more academic position. (Generally, this only happens in reverse.) We asked if the transition had been easy, and he responded, "My recommendation for you guys is not to do what I did. There's a lot of disdain for private sector economists; you can never really come back after you've gone out there, and in many ways, I'm still paying for the six years I worked in industry." But why turn down the money, the hefty one or two million a year? Besides, it's not as though he doesn't work 12 hour days anyway at the Fed. "Well, that's not the same," Sumit replied. "That's a lifestyle choice. If I suddenly started working 8 hours a day tomorrow, no one would say anything. Even though I'm still working long hours, it's because I want to."

It took some pushing, but I'm glad I went. For the first time, I felt like a part of the economics field, as though I'd been initiated into an ancient guild of craftsmen. I realize this is silly, since I haven't even applied to grad school, nor am I confident that I want to apply, but for that shining hour, I could feel the invisible hand patting me on the back.

By the way, in case you ever wondered, Charlie is a gin & tonic kind of guy. In particular, a Beefeater gin kind of guy.

Mystery Party!

Jen's got a new man, and even though I hadn't actually met David until 3 days ago, he's already doing a great job of scoring points with the Friends. (As we all know, a girl doesn't come solo...you get the added benefit of scrutiny from all her gal pals.) Namely, he's taken my advice on buying a bike, he got me a nice bunch of lemongrass (hard to come by), and best of all, he invited me (and all my friends) to a party. Whee! I immediately forwarded the invitation to the Fed list, and 7 of us ended up making it.

David is a free-lance writer, and apparently, he had written a 22-character Western mystery party that needed to be tested. Each person is assigned a character with a back-story, and has to figure out the answer to a mystery by the end of the night. Further, we were supposed to act and dress the part. So on Sunday night, we all descended on David's (uber cool) loft apartment, adorned with cowboy hats, large belt buckles, plaid shirts and peacock feathers (for Goldie Flapper). I stepped inside to discover we were inside the Sidewinder Saloon, with a motley cast of characters. These included personalities like Georgia Peach (Jen), the demure Southern belle, Earl Deep (Ali), the courteous stagecoach robber, and Becky Cartwright (Britton), the quick-witted bookworm whose favorite book is "Little Women." Ali asked to see my watch, so without hesitation, I showed him how it worked and passed it over for examination. Much to my dismay, he thanked me profusely and then pocketed it!

My character was Malcolm Blackwell, a girl whose real name was "Mary Ann," who was a rider for the Pony Express. She took on the position in order to make money to buy medicine for her sick Pa, and was a fearless rider, light and wiry. It was crucial that I not reveal my true identity, or else I would lose my job. To look the part, I found a $2 cowboy hat at a thrift store, along with a brown vest. I ended up forgetting the hat at home, but luckily, someone brought an extra hat along, and I was thrilled to snag that one.

By the end of the night, I had to figure out who had stolen Swiftheel, a quarterhorse that I intended to buy. To help supplement the information pool, there were 31 clue cards scattered around the apartment. While everyone else was milling about the living room, I decided to sweep through the back of the apartment, and single-handedly cleaned out the laundry room and Goldie's Room. I probably had a dozen clue cards, which turned out to be problematic, because I had no way of discreetly reading them all at once. It's a good thing there were multiple copies of some of the clues, so the information wasn't completely lost in my vest pockets.

Eventually, I was able to trade a treasure map for information on the identity of the horse thief. Armed with evidence of tar footprints outside the saloon and a photograph of Swiftheel "disguised" with a large tar spot, I confronted Tuco Delgado and he confessed to stealing the horse. Meanwhile, 3 people armed with guns ganged up to confront the piano player on the whereabouts of the gold stash, and the Albuquerque Kid (Chris) shot the guy who killed his father. I was particularly tickled by Jen's mystery, which was to figure out the ingredients in a recipe. She held a clue card titled "Gumbo" with sheet music on it, and the notes spelled out "Add a dace [a type of fish], add cabbage, beef aged a decade, a bad egg." Brilliant; I'm impressed that David was able to come up with four foods using only the first 7 letters of the alphabet!

At the evening's conclusion, we gathered around to see if we'd correctly solved our mysteries. Most people had, and depending on whether you were right, your character's story had two possible endings. I was correct in pinpointing Delgado, so I successfully bought Swiftheel and had a long, fruitful career as a Pony Express Rider. Had I been mistaken, my horse would have broken down from exhaustion outside of town, and I would have been attacked by wolves. Oy!

And in the future, if there's another mystery party that needs to be tested, I will be all over that like white on rice.

Define-a-thon

Summer officially kicks off in Chicago when the city is flooded with street fairs. From the Blues Festival to the Pride Parade to Pizza Fest, there's certainly something for everyone. Plus, Chicagoans always come out in droves, since the sunny weather is so ephemeral. This weekend marks the Printer's Row Book Fair in the South Loop. It's an adult version of the Scholastic truck at your elementary school, but with smaller font and fewer free bookmarks.

Having been spoiled by the Ithaca Book Sale, I love looking through bookstores, especially used bookstores with very loose organization. There was a decent selection of tents with used items, but a fair number of shelves were devoted to rare books. If only I could afford to own a library with leather-bound copies and gilt-edged first editions. Aside from booksellers hawking their wares, authors were also present to give lectures, plug for their books and sign copies. I came across S.E. Hinton, author of the middle school classic, The Outsiders, who had her hands full scrawling signatures for the serpentine line behind her. Other literati present included Augusten Burroughs (of Running with Scissors fame), and writer and historian Studs Terkel.

The highlight of the afternoon had rather little to do with books though: a Define-a-thon was taking place. What does that entail? In a twist from your standard spelling bee, the definition of a word was read, and from a set of 4 options, you had to choose the correct synonym or antonym. In a spirited moment of chutzpah, I decided to sign up (the list was capped at 17 or so entrants). Then, I started feeling nervous. Oy veh, what if I am the first person knocked out? I moved a step closer to finding religion.

As we gathered for the start of the competition, I began sizing the others up. Mostly women, and mostly over 40, though there were a few young guys who caught my eye. Maybe they'll be knocked out first, I thought. The woman sitting next to me asked why I'd decided to participate. Oh, I tend to teach my friends new words, I replied. Also, I've played a fair amount of Free Rice. Have you played that before? She said yes, and I gulped inwardly. For a distraction, I started staring at David Kipen. He's the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Director, and was present to announce and play emcee for the event. That's right, we were in the presence of the nation's most eminent literature maven, complete with full shock of Malcolm Gladwell-like white hair. I shifted nervously in my chair on stage, and the Define-a-thon began.

The first round of questions came from set 1 (there were 3 total), and were fairly simple. I answered my question correctly and breathed a sigh of relief as I passed the microphone to the lady behind me. An element comprising 80% of the earth's atmosphere, Kipen asked, is it dirt, helium, nitrogen or ozone? She stalled and asked for the question to be repeated. I held my breath; this seemed a little unfair for a set 1 question, since it depended on having scientific knowledge. She hazarded a guess. Ozone? I'm sorry, that's incorrect, the answer is nitrogen. Oh, how embarrassing! She exited the stage. I felt some schadenfreude.

The questions continued coming rapid-fire, and we moved into set 2. I was asked for an organism, such as a fungus or mold, that derives nourishment from organic remains. (The answer was saprophyte.) A few more people got knocked out of the competition, but overall, the group was still doing quite well, spitting out words like "penumbra" and "diphthong" without breaking a sweat. 35 minutes into the game, we moved into set 3 and I started to really worry.

What is the antonym of riant, Kipen quizzed a guy in the front row. (Thank you, Free Rice, a word I learned from that site actually came in handy!) The gentleman stumbled and did not pick the right answer (dour), and set 3 began knocking out a slew of contestants. Including myself. When asked for a coal miner, I decided to guess "dowser" (the answer was "collier"), and gracefully accepted the applause as I left the stage. It was probably for the best, as the questions were only getting more ridiculous. In Sanskrit poetry...with 8 syllables in a pada...gee, you know it's hard when there are words you've never seen before in the definition itself.

In the end, the pool was narrowed to two finalists: Elizabeth, the librarian, and Sean, the um, temp worker (and one of the guys I thought would be knocked out early on). I was rooting for Sean, of course, as they competed for the grand prize of American Heritage Dictionaries. The runner-up would receive a somewhat smaller college edition, while the winner would get the standard version. As the final minutes ticked, Elizabeth got a question right, which meant Sean had to answer this next question correctly, or face public ignominy: a grey-breasted wading bird? After asking for spellings, he guessed hallux. Alas, the answer was whimbrel.

Aside from reading a lot, and actively learning vocabulary, it seems like specialization in lots of subjects would be the best way to go about winning this contest. Unfortunately for me, there was only one question which smacked vaguely of economics (on cartels). No matter, I plan to play a lot of Free Rice between now and next June.

Iamneurotic

Recently, I stumbled across I Am Neurotic, which not surprisingly, is a compilation of user-submitted neuroses. Like many confessional websites, I Am Neurotic is at times funny, touching, and occasionally, frightening. I was particularly amused by the poster who said he kept checking the site to see if his submission had been posted, thereby creating yet another neurosis. Chris jokingly suggested he would open up a competing site, called IamHappyandWellAdjusted.com. Yeah okay, he's the last person I'd consider for membership in that club.

To be fair though, I think we all have our own neuroses, and I started giving some thought to the quirky things I do that no one else is aware of. I'd like to think that these aren't that crazy (see the guy who always has to shake salad dressings), but who knows, maybe I'm less happy and well-adjusted than I think I am. Without further ado, here are a few of the neurotic things that I do (and maybe you do them too):

• I hate typing in URLs because it means my browser will save them for 10 days. The exception is if this is a site I will visit regularly in the future, then it's allowed to be in the drop-down history menu. I'm also careful to type in http://www.domain.com, so that all the addresses line up evenly. The worst is when other people use my computer and type in something like espn.com, which means I will see that eyesore every time I click on the drop down history, for the next 10 days.
• I refuse to run with an iPod, but I'm always mentally singing something in my head while I run. I always run and breathe in time, which rules out a lot of really fast or slow songs. Since my preferred breathing cadence is one breath for every 3 steps, this means I'm almost always running to songs in 3/4 or 6/8 time. There aren't too many of those, but my current favorites are the Alma Mater Waltz and the 6/8 section in Copland's "In the Beginning" about whales.
• There is a default assortment of dishes in the drying rack, meaning if the dishes have dried, I put everything away except for 3 bowls, a small cutting board, a small plate, a large plate, a pair of wooden chopsticks, a wooden spoon, a paring knife, peeler, 2 tablespoons, 1 teaspoon, and 1 fork.
• Along the same lines, I stack plastic tupperware containers in the same order, every time.
• My alarm clock is usually set to an "odd" number, like 7:26 am. Why should half and quarter hours always be the chosen wake-up times?
  
• If at least 50% of a song has been played in iTunes, and I need to leave or move on to something new, I scroll to play the end of the song plus 5 seconds of the next song, so that the play count updates correctly.
  

Chitown: the soap opera

In honor of the circus that is working as an AE at the Chicago Fed, I hereby propose to write our lives into a soap opera. I'm not sure what I expected when I moved here, but it certainly wasn't the dramatic heights that this weekend entailed. After all, aren't economists supposed to be reasonable? Didn't we invent the (myth of the) rational actor? I digress. Here's my outline for the up and coming new sitcom, Chitown.

Cast

• Crystal: don't let the facade fool you, she's evidence that bad-assery can come in tiny packages. When she opened Schrodinger's box, the cat was in fact, simultaneously alive and dead.
  
• Chris: still undergoing delayed adolescence (read, emo) and perpetually misunderstood, particularly when his dirty jokes fall flat on unamused targets. Takes pride in being ambiguously gay, freakishly strong, and wearing his Birkenstocks until they develop holes in the heel.
  
• Haley: type-A organization extraordinaire, has her sights set on business school, owning the J. Crew catalogue, and providing the invisible hand that Makes. Things. Happen.
  
• Nate: happy-go-lucky mediator with a penchant for wearing argyle and kayaking without a boat, he asks if you've heard the one about the 3 econometricians who went hunting?
  
• Erik: proof that justice should be meted out with a clipped British accent, he seeks to shine the light of truth in places of darkness. Hopes to some day make it big with his single "Bernanke."
  
• Ricky: Erik's girlfriend, who is vying for positions in the publishing industry. Between her indie rock playlist, cave-woman underwear, and unorthodox name, she's alternative, baby.
  
• Britton: a sorority girl with a heart of gold, embodiment that you can take the girl out of Ohio, but you can't take the Ohio out of the girl.
  

Recurring Characters

• Phil, gamer and internet-snob, with an encyclopedic knowledge of classic Greek literature. His New Year's resolution is 1280 x 1024, and he'd love to hang out with you in meat space...if only it didn't interfere with his WoW time.
  
• Alex, a model of chivalry for the ladies, though this is only on display when he can tear himself away from his 16 hour work-days
  
• Rich, Crystal's "boss," with a cynical, dry humor and an affinity for flicking butter pats across the table during lengthy lunch meetings
  
• Gay Bartender at Debonair
• The Lunch Lady
  
• Ithaca Joe
  

Pilot Episode: The One Where It All Began

Fresh out of college, the new cohort of Fed AEs start tackling new jobs in a new city. Much to his dismay, Chris discovers the bathrooms do not have paper towel dispensers, only hand dryers. Rather than touching the handle, he waits stealthily behind the door until someone else comes in. In between the drudgery of cleaning data sets, Erik and Nate scheme to invent adult cereal boxes, complete with keychain Rubik's cubes and samples of organic bourbon. The girls organize a ladies' night out with manicures and Manhattans. On the way there, Crystal gets hit by a taxi, and then gets hit on by a rescuer cyclist.

---

We'd probably have to drop the Federal Reserve bit, since that would induce yawns faster than turning down the lights in a lecture hall. If anyone knows how to contact FOX, I'm all ears.

Fishy

Ana is moving up and out in the world, leaving the Fed for grad school, which means she is currently frantically trying to give away her possessions. Since I seem pretty "nurturing" out of the AEs, she approached me to ask if I wanted to assume the duties of Goldfish Mommy. I gave it some thought (what if I need to go on vacation? what if there's uncontrollable algae growth? what if I kill it??), then Tian told me to just stop thinking and say yes. Okay, here goes.

It's funny to think that for the first time ever, I have the responsibility of a life on my hands. At the moment, I'm a little concerned because the fish is swimming a bit erratically, and he didn't eat when we tried to feed him. But maybe that's simply due to the stress of the move. At any rate, we jokingly agreed that if he dies within the next month, it's Ana's fault, and if he dies after that, it's my fault. (However, as economists, we aren't sure what kind of lag variables should be included in the survival rate regression...so maybe it's no one's fault.)

I shall call him Fishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Fishy! No really, Ana bequeathed him with the name Fishy, so out of respect for the precedent, I will probably stick with that. The previous AE owner called him "Sashimi," which seems oddly cannibalistic. All told, the fish is about 5 years old, and has been passed down from Fed AE to AE about once every year or two. Let's hope he (or she?) lives a happy life, at least during my tenure.