How to Make Rainbow Cake

Over the weekend, I did something completely out of character: I baked a rainbow cake. This is striking because I am pretty health conscious and strive to cook things from scratch, eschew the use of processed or packaged ingredients, and usually don't find a dish interesting unless it has some sort of esoteric ingredient, like sumac or harissa. Also, I hate baking and generally avoid it because it's very precise, error-prone and does not allow for creativity. (At least, I am not knowledgeable enough about baking to be creative about it.) For this cake, I used boxed cake mix and leaned on my buddies Red 40, Yellow 5 and Blue 1 for help. O.o

Some recommended uses for cake:

• Centerpiece for your 3-year-old's Care Bears party
  
• Relive the '90s with a Lisa Frank sticker and stationery swapping bash
• Celebrate the discovery of the end of the rainbow
  
• Coming out party for your angsty teen
• Mark the release of the latest Radiohead album
• Offer your dieting guests a slice of the infrared spectrum cake; it's calorie-free

Armed with some tips from this post, I set out to make a cake more colorful than Candy Mountain. I followed the directions to make batter for one box of white cake mix, then split the batter into six parts. For coloring, I used Betty Crocker gel food colors (located next to the icing), which are cheaper than regular food coloring, give more vivid colors and result in less dilution of your recipes. Straining to recall the color wheel from elementary school art, I concocted an array of batters:


Next, scoop the batter into a greased, 9" round pan. Pour each color directly into the center of the pan, on top of the previous color. Don't worry about spreading or mixing it; as each layer gets added, it will push the previous layers out to the sides quite nicely.


With 40 minutes of baking at 350 degrees, this gave me a nice single-layer cake round. After allowing the cake to cool, I threw on some innocuous white icing to hide the surprise underneath. In an effort to recover my cooking cred, I did make orange cream cheese icing from scratch. This was done by creaming 3 T of softened butter with an 8 oz package of cream cheese, then adding 1 cup of powdered sugar, 1/2 t of vanilla extract and zest of 1 orange. The final product is below:


I divided out a small portion of the batter to make two cupcakes, which turned out like so:


The final product turned out quite well, with each color clearly visible in every slice. And as someone who hates frosting, this frosting was a perfect complement to the cake, not cloyingly sweet, with some citrusy notes for depth. Our waitress at dinner was so taken by the cake that she asked if she could try a slice. Needless to say, it was demolished by the end of the night. Nom nom nom!

More Firsts, Temperance Edition

My shot glass was tipsy before I even got started.

There are few things I would change about my undergrad experience, but I realize that it was pretty atypical. So, for better or worse, I've been making up for lost time in Chicago with hedonistic antics that most people (except for the people I hung out with) cover in college. I must say, the stories have gotten a bit more entertaining. (People making out with two guys at once vs Friday night Duffield study party, which would you rather hear about?) At any rate, in the last couple weeks, I have acknowledged the end of my political aspirations with the following activities:

Chocolate Cake Shot

• 1 part Frangelico (hazelnut liqueur), 1 part vodka, shoot the mixture, bite a slice of sugared lemon


• I was quite skeptical that this was going to taste anything like chocolate or cake, since its components contain none of those ingredients. But shockingly enough, it tasted like chocolate cake, even evoking the floury texture of cake somehow! My mind was boggled.


• Ideal for people who prefer chocolate Yoohoo to alcohol

Lemon Drop

• Vodka shot, splash of triple sec, bite a slice of sugared lemon
  


• This was lemony...and vodka-y, as you might expect. After the chocolate cake shot, I was a little disappointed that I wasn't tasting the crystallized crunch of a lemon drop.
  


• Best suited for girls' night parties and scurvy pirates
  

Irish Car Bomb

• 2/3 glass of Guinness, drop in a shot of Bailey's, chug before the mixture curdles on you. The chunky film left on the bottom of the glass is a tad disturbing, then I thought about what was going on inside my stomach.
  


• Guinness is not as carbonated as many other beers I've tried, so it was actually pretty easy to chug. Having said that, I don't know how everyone else manages to finish their drink in half the time that it takes me; I was told I need more practice. Be careful not to splash the contents of the glass as you drop in the shot. The drink itself tastes similar to chocolate milk.


• Perfect for your 7-year-old's birthday party. Just kidding, we would want to give them Benadryl instead. Irish car bombs have a certain fratty cachet to them, since they are most commonly consumed for St. Patrick's Day, so perhaps this should be reserved for Man Night. On the other hand, I thought the Irish car bomb was a lot smoother than your average sake bomb, which tastes like turpentine. Maybe someone should inform all the freshman chicks at Miyake to try car bombs instead.
  

Hookah

• There were dozens of flavor combinations at Samah Lounge, and we were at a total loss as to what to choose. Originally, Katherine wanted to spring for Fruit Loops (rose, orange) since that's what she had last time, but then I was persuaded by our server's recommendation of Autumn Night (vanilla, rose, lavender, something else I'm forgetting).
  


• With thoughts of Bill Clinton running through my mind ("I didn't inhale!"), I grabbed the hose and took a deep breath. A pleasant floral scent filled the air, warm and mysterious. I exhaled a few smoke tendrils and leaned against the wall. No wonder they never get anything done in the Middle East! Towards the end though, the hookah became quite harsh and started to burn the back of my throat. This had better not do any permanent damage to my voice. Also, for the rest of the night, I kept smelling vague whiffs of Autumn Night. I swear the Oak Street bend of the Lakeshore Path smells exactly like Autumn Night.
  


• I've heard differing reports on the amount of nicotine in hookah, from "It's like .001 mg!" to "You split hookah between 3 people? That is a lot of hookah.", but overall the impact is slight. I felt a little more mellow than before, but part of me thinks that laying on the floor with cushions would be relaxing anyway, so why bother with the hookah? However, there is a particular brand of bonding that comes from communally sharing and passing the hookah while sprawled on pillows. Next time I have an Alice in Wonderland party, there will be hookah.
  

Marriage-you-wanna?

• After numerous people skeptically told me that "you never get high the first time," I must say that if that's the case, you're probably doing it wrong. And there is no shame in that because lighting the bowl takes some practice. Not surprisingly, I was pretty terrible at figuring out when to cover the hole, when to inhale, when to move in the lighter, how to even work a lighter...all this mostly resulted in a massive attack of coughing, as if I'd swallowed hot sand. I would like to note that the Californians were by far the most adept at this process.
  


• Never mind hookah, this puts the M in Mellow. I can see why the stereotypical group of stoners is sprawled semi-comatose on couches while listening to Jimi Hendrix. (Although, me being me, I was up at 7 am like clockwork the next morning.) Have you ever wanted the superpower to freeze time? It was as though the clock had stopped ticking, and I could move around normally, push children out of the way of trains, or loot a bank...but I was too comfortable to actually go anywhere. Even the most ardent Type-A personalities will turn into a contented bag of mostly water. On my way home, I was curiously unaffected by the (miserable, extremely windy and rainy) weather. Though sans hat, I felt no cold and despite a ten-minute wait for the train, I felt no impatience.
  


• Generally, one of the more pressing questions for neophytes is how to know if you're high. It sounds cliche, but you will definitely know when you're there. For me at least, the effects hit unexpectedly. All of the sudden, it felt like the blood vessels in my head had expanded, my heartbeat was drumming in my ears, and it was impossible to focus. I'd start a sentence and then lose my train of thought before finishing it. Reading was hopeless. Terrible jokes were greeted with uproarious laughter. Even if you had the presence of mind to realize how unfunny the remark was, you still couldn't stop laughing at everyone else who thought it was amusing. (For good measure, I watched some Aqua Teen Hunger Force and didn't find it significantly funnier than when sober.) Most interesting is the way your senses heighten and exaggerate random inputs. As Rolling Stones wafted from the speakers, I could feel heavy vibrations of bass, amplified like Libe on Slope Day. Then, the sensation faded and I started pondering the vivid colors of my shirt. Man, they were bright! Up till that point, I wasn't experiencing anything differentiable from an alcohol buzz, but this last step catapults the experience over booze. Though my short-term memory was impaired, the effects were less severe than with alcohol and cognition was mostly intact, just fragmented and distracted. If only I could have recorded my internal monologue, I might have generated a great new contribution to literature.
  


• Despite my state of complete chillaxation, my heart was pounding violently as if I'd run a 10k. Other physical effects include dry mouth, bloodshot eyes and dry eyes, though the latter may have simply been due to the smoke in the room. I kept thinking how great some water would be; too bad there was no running water in this apartment's kitchen. I was also semi-seriously joking about protecting my valuable vocal chords; for that reason alone, I would not make this a regular practice.
  


• Recommended for when you want to really explore your Led Zeppelin collection or need to write that philosophy paper
  

Opium

• Just joshing, I would never do that! Besides, as we all know, bad things happen when Chinese people smoke opium.
  

Money, Porn and Other Sordid Tales

As befits its audience, Wrigleyville tends to be filled with generic, fratty faux-Irish pubs and sports bars, where the name of the game is cheap booze and raucous behavior. This certainly has its place, but I have discovered a far more interesting option in the seemingly mislocated Risque Cafe. I first heard about this bar through Rob, who described it as antithetical to the goal of meeting women, since it is filled with posters of pin-up girls and specializes in beer, neither of which are strong attractors for females. Sure enough, upon walking inside, I was greeted with the flashing lights of a Playboy pinball machine and large portraits of scantily clad women.

Onto the beer list. Risque features a gargantuan list of over 200 American craft beers, sorted by state of origin. Skimming through, I saw some familiar regional names, like 3 Floyds (IN) and Great Lakes (OH) breweries, along with more far-flung names like Southern Tier (NY) and Rogue Ales (OR). Though some of these beers can set you back $20, each night features a $3 beer on tap. They also have an impressive offering of whiskeys, with three types of whiskey even on tap. I ordered Jack Daniels from tap simply because I'd never seen that before. In case you're curious, it doesn't taste markedly different from a regular pour.

It took us a while to notice the TV screens behind the bar, but we soon caught on to the titillating material being presented. In order of weirdness, on the right-most screen, Mondo Topless was playing, which involved a lot of bouncing cleavage. Oddly enough, the Chinese subtitles were showing underneath, though I was too far away/couldn't read quickly enough to catch them. (One line said something like "I love running through the woods au naturel!") The center screen was showing Teeth, whose plot centers on the vagina dentata myth, and thus, resulted in many disturbing scenes of dismembered members. I should mention that Ryan's friend was playing at Risque that night, so in the middle of his acoustic guitar set, he glanced up to see a dog chomping down and screamed "Oh my god!" in horrified distraction. Shockingly, this movie won a lot of acclaim at the Sundance Festival and has a fairly impressive 82% from Rotten Tomatoes. (Forgive me for my skepticism; since we were watching with the volume turned down, I was joking but didn't actually think the movie was about women's empowerment.) Finally, on the left-most screen, there was fat chick morbidly obese chick porn. Also, some shots of naked children. I didn't catch the credits on this one, but trust me, it was quite bizarre.

Afterwards, Katherine had mentioned that James was housesitting for the guy that runs his law firm for the week, and ergo, he was throwing a party. I was told to bring "as many people as possible." I started to question whether this was a good idea, but upon second thought, remembered that the time Jie and I housesat for her boss, we drove the car and left the headlights on, resulting in a dead battery. Twice. Thus, I dutifully hauled the entire gang with me to my friend's roommate's classmate's boss' mansion on the Gold Coast.

Chicago's "Gold Coast" neighborhood is so named because it is the highest concentration of luxury retail stores and wealthy homes in the city. The house in question was located on Astor, which is renowned for its magnificent mansions, originally designed and owned by all the major luminaries from the 19th century. Hugh Hefner's first Playboy mansion is also located on this stretch.

Needless to say, the home was stunning, straight out of a magazine photoshoot. There was an original Miró hanging on the wall. A jersey signed by Michael Jordan. Flat screen TVs in every room. Two decks offered views of the downtown skyline. A pool table. Fireplaces. The master bathroom toilet was in a room that was completely mirrored on all sides. (Call me crazy, but why on earth would you want to watch yourself?) Two ornate, handpainted and limited edition (by default, because the artist has died) chess sets. Leather-bound books with gilt edges lined the study. And finally, Yale paraphernalia subtly popped up wherever you looked, from the coffee table reading selections to the pennants in the background of photos. Factoring for location, this was definitely the most expensive house I've ever partied in. What a shame that much of the alcohol was locked up, not because the owners were worried about us drinking, but to "keep it away from the son."

As we toured the house, I thought of the tour buses going past the ostentatious homes of AIG executives. Does this empty-nest family need all this space? Does anyone need all this space? The answer is undoubtedly no. I could feel some tremors of populist rage welling up inside me. At the same time, it would be wicked cool to be able to afford all that. Think of the ball pit room I could design! I grew up in a comfortably middle-class family, but for the first time, I felt like a grubby street urchin illicitly peeking into the lifestyles of the Rich and Powerful. This is where cognac is sipped in the cigar smoke-filled room, where admissions decisions are smoothed with the donation of buildings, where legislation is sealed with a handshake. And the Evil part of me wants to be in that upper echelon.

Anyway, we snapped pictures of the Miró (and had Adrian stand in the picture to prove that this wasn't from a museum):

Persepolis

March marks Women's History Month, and while I wasn't previously aware that such a month existed, the Fed has done a great job scheduling activities and events to recognize and celebrate women's history. For the month, the Fed is bringing in speakers, presenting film screenings and hosting an art show. Mad accolades are due to the people responsible for programming.

I don't strongly identify with the feminist movement, and am generally more cognizant of issues involving Asian rights and racial discrimination because that is more central to my identity. Moreover, the feminist movement itself is diverse and fractured, while having the unfortunate characterization of being full of "white, upper middle-class bitches" who whine about Hillary Clinton's failed presidential bid. But the last couple weeks have provided me some food for thought. In a semi-provoked outburst at lunch, Katherine gave a stern lecture to our cohort of mostly male AEs after someone made a remark that lightly trivialized women's rights. "In many ways, women are still second-class citizens in this country and the situation is worse around the world," she said. "If you removed the word 'woman' from your comments and replaced it with 'black,' that would have been extremely out of line. Considering many of you will spend the rest of your lives with a woman, it would behoove you to give some thought to the state of women's rights and be a little more sensitive about the issue." The rest of the lunch table sat back looking rather shocked and wounded. Katherine went on to mention other instances of misogyny in the news, like the school shooting in Germany that targeted women. Ironically, someone who shall remain unnamed then said, "But that's because women can't run." I shot him an arresting glare before he could continue.

I like making insensitive comments as much as the next person, and there is certainly a culture of inappropriate remarks at the lunch table, with the understanding that we are not going to report each other to HR. However, there is always a line that should not be crossed, where edgy becomes offensive and kills Fun. Personally, it is irksome and offensive for me to hear people using epithets like "pussy" and "grow a vagina." I would argue that calling someone "ho" is less offensive because it is obviously not true, where as the former phrases attack and cheapen women's bodies and their social status. In the same way, it makes me uncomfortable to hear people calling things "gay" or "faggoty". [end soapbox]

Anyway, the Fed sponsored a screening of Oscar-nominated and Cannes prize-winning film Persepolis yesterday, and Katherine and I decided to swing by. The movie is based on a graphic novel series by Marjane Satrapi and is heavily autobiographical. In a bildungsroman set against the Iranian Revolution, Satrapi chronicles her childhood in a time of war and ever-increasing societal repression, where simply wearing Westernized sneakers can result in harassment and jail time. To protect their outspoken child, Satrapi's parents send her to Vienna in her early teens while they stay behind. Navigating the cultural divide is not easy for Satrapi, as she struggles to come to terms with her Iranian roots while far from her family. Nor is returning to Iran the solution, as Satrapi finds out when she goes home to find a changed country.

The choice of medium for the subject matter was intriguing, given that comics, erm, graphic novels are generally used for lighthearted, fantastical topics, and this movie discussed issues that are very much real and serious contemporary problems. The cartoon violence helped soften the edges; rather than seeing the vivid, bloody carnage in the aftermath of a missile strike, we see a cartoon arm sticking out of a pile of rubble. For a narrative with so much potential to be painful, the film is surprisingly whimsical, never straying far from the its original perspective of a child's eyes.

Overall, this is an eye-opening, quirky and very French movie. I would say it is less about women's rights, and more about cultural differences and historical events. I highly recommend it, particularly if you are curious about the development of modern Iran or enjoyed Amelie. A trailer follows below:

Running Rules of Etiquette

or things I ponder/fume about as I run along the increasingly packed Lakeshore Path:

Rule #1: Unless you're trying to lose it permanently, keep your junk in your trunk. In other words, space is at a premium and you should occupy as little as possible. No jogging with strollers. You're probably just giving Junior a sunburn. No rollerblades when it's crowded. They take up too much lateral space when you kick your ankles out. No unattended small children or pets. I will mercilessly crush them under my bike wheels if they dart in front of me. No Segways, motorized scooters, or Magic Wheels. Just...no.

Rule #2: If you pass someone, do it quickly to minimize the amount of time you're running side by side. It's bad enough that you're being passed; no need to draw out the encounter with the runner who is pwning you. Then build up a decent length between you and the other person, so that there's no chance they will try to overtake you. There's nothing worse than passive-aggressive leapfrogging on the crowded path. Speaking from experience, this can lead to tempers flaring, minor injuries and jammed derailleurs.

Rule #3: If you decide to follow someone, be a considerable distance behind them, so they don't feel like they're being hounded. The appropriate distance is far enough away such that they can't hear the pounding of your feet or your out-of-breath wheezing.

Having said all that, occasionally you do find someone who has hit the sweet spot in pacing, an inspiring equilibrium level that is challenging yet manageable. Tonight, as I leaned against a tree to stretch post-run, another woman huffed and puffed to a stop nearby. "Thank you!" she beamed. "YOU are the reason I've gotten here! I was behind you the whole time, keeping up with your pace. It's a good thing you didn't speed up!"

Wedding Pi

Congratulations are due to Heather, one of my friends from high school, who is getting married today. I didn't make it back to MA for the ceremony, but I did send a wedding gift. More specifically, I asked Black Sheep Deli & Bakery if they would deliver a pumpkin pie to Heather to celebrate the occasion. After all, it is Pi Day. The woman laughed and said, "That is so cute!"

This is the first wedding gift I've bought, so I figure it shouldn't be something uber lame like a bread basket or pillow cases or something. Plus, I am reasonably sure that no one else at this wedding will send her a pie, or even realize that it is Pi Day, with the possible exception of Brewer, with whom I typically have conversations on topics like lambda calculus.

Heather's response: Just wanted you to know we did get the pie and it is so cute and delicious. Pumpkin is Mark's favorite and he claims you're his new best friend for sending pie. I will be sure to tell Brewer that you sent me a pie for my pi day wedding, he will appreciate that. Now I just need steaks because it's also steak and bj day, lol.

Also, if you haven't already seen it on Facebook, check out Vance's dedication to pi--it's definitely irrational.

---

In other wedding-related news, Emily has informed me that she's downsizing her wedding and will most likely have fewer/no bridesmaids. This probably means I'm off the hook for bridesmaid duties (yessss). So, is it bad form to go from being a bridesmaid to not attending the wedding...?

Update: Never mind, I just got a voicemail message from Emily saying that she's changed her mind about the previous dress, and now we're looking at something that is "two-piece" with "sheer" material. But the apple red is staying. Sigh.

Word Clouds

I started playing with Wordle this afternoon and decided to generate a few word clouds based on AIM log files between Dec 19, 2006 and Aug 22, 2007. (For a variety of reasons, this was the easiest period/client to generate.) A few words have been removed (e.g. "haha") to make the frequency distribution a little more uniform, but other than that, the text is unaltered. Prizes will be awarded if you can guess the identities of the following people:




I have a feeling that clouds generated on my gchat logs for the same people would look a lot different.

Finally, here is the word cloud for my blog:

Why Our Meetings Rock

"Is there a Super-Duper Senior?"

"Nationally, we're back to 2003-level home prices."

"That's so much better than the stock market!"

"So, this picture is telling me that I shouldn't be worried because my bank is well-capitalized?"

"Yeah, they're well-capitalized...by us."

"Instead of presenting the forecasts, why don't we just show the SNL skit on Geithner?"

On Commuting

Every day, I hop on my bike and trek the 3.1 miles to work. Head down against the merciless wind, eddies of traffic flowing around me, I pedal hard against the pavement, one small revolution at a time. Having traversed it hundreds of times, I know this route like the lyrics to RENT. I slip into an almost meditative state, which is probably not the frame of mind you should be in as UPS trucks bear down behind you. Still, I take the rumbles, the honking and the exhaust and incorporate them into an unorthodox urban reverie.

With almost equal reliability, I pass the grocery on the corner of 18th Street and hear a piercing whistle. You know the kind, the penetrating wolf-whistle that men are so naturally adept at. A high note, followed by a portmento to a lower pitch, then back up again. A curlique on the staff.

At first, my reaction was annoyance. What chauvinistic pig goes around whistling at women these days? Where does he think he is, Southern Europe? Then, I inevitably succumbed to the implicit flattery. Though I am bundled up in three layers of fleece, a scarf, an ungainly helmet and '80s style legwarmers, I am still attracting attention. Sweet, I can make heads turn! Or maybe it's recognition of the badassery of biking in traffic, faithfully braving the harsh winter. You go, girl, says the Incognito Whistler. Go out and stick it to the Man. On the silent, uninterrupted mornings that I pass by unheralded, I can't help feeling that something is amiss. I reluctantly dissolve back into solution.

Occasionally, I turn my cheek and take a quick glance to the side. This usually elicits additional whoops and shouts. I imagine high fives, fist pumps and terrorist fist jabs in the parking lot. I never have time to actually see anything beyond a brief glimpse of warehouse, then I right myself and pedal faster to beat the yellow light. There is work to be done after all.

Yet, my thoughts linger on. Who is the Incogito Whistler? Is he a grizzled, old man, fully-bearded, cantankerous and impervious to the forces of political correctness? A dapper poetic soul, who relishes the whimsy of anonymous encounters? A fellow cyclist? A pipe-smoking Russian ice skater? For the last year and a half, have I been callously passing up the love of my life? Should I do something?

Missed Connections - Whistler's Other -w4m - 23 (18th & Canal)

Every morning, I bike past the Richwell Market and you whistle at me. Normally, I brush this aside like clingy lint and continue on my merry way with nary a second thought, but lately I've been wondering--do you like orange juice with pulp? Have you ever pondered how they get the middle bun on a Big Mac? We've never seen each other face to face, much less met, but we still have a connection ripe for exploration. Let me know if you want to break the 4th wall or stroll down the street singing "Les Champs-Élysées." Sure, I realize that simply stopping would be a much more efficient way than Craig's List to accomplish this, but that would ruin the enigmatic appeal of this exchange. Please reply with the colors of my headband and backpack; your pic gets mine.

A sudden thought strikes me: what if the Incognito Whistler is a woman?

Words of Advice for Young People

While reading a tangentially-related blog post on the Stanford Ponzi scheme, I stumbled across a reference to William S. Burroughs' "Words of Advice for Young People." Burroughs was a writer and member of the Beat generation, and is most famous for authoring Naked Lunch. Curious, I looked up the piece in its entirety and was wholly amused by his words: sometimes profound, often crude and always sassy.

I am not following at least two pieces of this advice. You can enjoy the dramatic reading here.

William S. Burroughs' "Words of Advice for Young People"

People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people.
Well here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.
Never interfere in a boy-and-girl fight.
Beware of whores who say they don't want money.
The hell they don't.
What they mean is they want more money. Much more.
If you're doing business with a religious son-of-a-bitch,
Get it in writing.
His word isn't worth shit.
Not with the good lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.

Avoid fuck-ups.
We all know the type.
Anything they have anything to do with,
No matter how good it sounds,
Turns into a disaster.
Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill.
Tell them firmly:
I am not paid to listen to this drivel.
You are a terminal fool.

Now some of you may encounter the Devil's Bargain,
If you get that far.
Any old soul is worth saving,
At least to a priest,
But not every soul is worth buying.
So you can take the offer as a compliment.
He tries the easy ones first.
You know like money,
All the money there is.
But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery?
Money won't buy.
Not much left to spend it on, eh gramps?
Getting too old to cut the mustard.

How's a young body grab you?
Like three card monte, like pea under the shell,
Now you see it, now you don't.
Haven't you forgotten something, gramps?
In order to feel something,
You've got to be there.
You have to be eighteen.
You're not eighteen.
You are seventy-eight.
Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.

Well they always try the easiest ones first.
How about an honorable bargain?
You always wanted to be a doctor,
Well now's your chance.
Why don't you become a great healer
And benefit humanity?
What's wrong with that?
Just about everything.
There are no honorable bargains
Involving exchange
Of qualitative merchandise
Like souls
For quantitative merchandise
Like time and money.
So piss off Satan
And don't take me for dumber than I look.

An old junk pusher told me -
Watch whose money you pick up.

Deal of the Day

Either the economy is just that bad, or someone made a terrible mistake, because I just purchased a $120 peacoat for the low, low price of $6. My decision making process went something like this:

Me: But I don't need a coat. I don't even like peacoats!

Alex: Dude, six bucks. My lunch cost more than that.

Me: Excellent point. Dammit, I really wanted brownie. Quick, tomato or sunflower?

Alex: Red. Yellow looks bad on Asians.

Me: Fine, it's in the cart. Wait, do I really want this coat? Much less a tomato one?

Alex: But how can you pass something like this up? It's 95% off, almost free!

Me: Shipping is $5 so I am spending $11 that I otherwise wouldn't have today. Yeah, that's like free.

[For the next 20 minutes, I valiantly attempt to check out and encounter error after error as Tulle's servers are swamped by traffic from cheap bastards like myself. The endowment effect and loss aversion kicks in...]

Me (hyperventilating): Noooo! Why won't my order go through?? Wait, that worked! YES.

As with any arbitrage opportunity, the window with which you can take advantage of it is quite small. By the time I managed to check out, it appeared that there were no coats left in stock.

I figure if I don't actually want to wear it, I can always resell the coat for way more than its purchase price.

Why I Love Irv's Bike Shop

Mural from the facade of the Casa Juan Diego building.
Caption at the bottom: Aqui estamos y aqui nos quedamos.
Translation: Here we are and here we stay.

Lately, I've been noticing that the Jolly Green Giant (my mountain bike) has been feeling under the weather. At first, it was simply a matter of gears not shifting smoothly or at all. That's ok, Chicago is flat! Then, as winter progressed, all kinds of squeaking and crunching noises started to chime in. Oh well, nothing a little extra lube can't fix, right? Finally, two days ago I noticed that my rear brake cable was slack. As in, there was a significant delay between the time I pressed down on the brakes and when the bike actually began slowing. That's when I decided it might be dangerous to continue ignoring the compounding ailments. I hauled ass to Irv's.

Irv's Bike Shop is my all-time favorite FLBS and the only true neighborhood bike shop in Chicago. Period. When you walk in, there will a bird on the counter, children ogling BMX bikes, hipsters carrying neon blue wheels, and an occasional dog underfoot gnawing on a bone. There may not be shining floor displays and it is often closer to go to Kozy's, but I will go out of my way to get to Irv's. Come to think of it, I have yet to meet anyone named Irv here, but I am on good terms with Henry. By that, I mean he invariably chews me out every time I walk in.

Me: So, my front derailleur isn't shifting any more...
Henry: When's the last time you greased it?
Me: Uhh, one month ago? Two months ago?
Henry: Ok, repeat after me: I will grease my chain once a week. I want you to say that 100 times before you leave! [Henry proceeds to clean, grease and fix my bike for me free of charge, and then shoos me out the door.]

This time, Henry began scrutinizing my bike and asked, "Have you ever given this an overhaul? You're going to need new brake pads, a new chain, cranks, chainrings, rear casette...We'll take out the cables and replace them with stainless steel ones so this doesn't happen again. Man, you have done a number on this bike! " I gave him a sheepish look and asked, "Ok, how much is all this going to cost?" He replied, "Oh, let's see, the cogs will be about $60, another $12 for brake pads, plus $1000 for labor...does that sound cool?" I grinned and said, "Totally fine."

For an additional bonus, Irv's is in Pilsen, a heavily Mexican neighborhood filled with tacquerias, cantinas and Mexican bakeries. All the chicharrónes (pork rinds) and chocoflan (combination flan and chocolate cake) that you could want! This meant that while I waited for my bike to be repaired, I hopped over to La Casa del Pueblo and picked up a dozen tamales for $10. (There are multiple varieties but I can't read the menu, so I've resorted to pointing at the sticker-adorned foil wrapped package that I want; yellow and green have been pretty good so far.) In recent months, there has been much debate over the continuing gentrification of Pilsen, and whether the influx of art galleries, coffee shops and hipsters will drive working-class residents out of the barrio (along with the gang warfare problems). On the side of a building, I was amused to see that someone had painted a yellow zoning sign labeled "Danger: Gentrification Zone."

Back at Irv's, the total damage came to $177.97. This is actually $70 more than I spent buying the bike to begin with, but I figure that I like this bike a lot and don't want to expend the effort of finding a new one. Besides, considering I've put next to no maintenance into this bike and a monthly CTA pass runs a little over $80, I'm still coming out ahead overall. The Jolly Green Giant is now running smooth like butter and faster than ever. Bring on the spring weather!